


The Little King's Road

by livierambles



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, No character bashing, accidental heroes, slytherins just want to survive, they're all stupid and trying their best
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-02-09 19:01:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 33,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18644176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livierambles/pseuds/livierambles
Summary: When fifth year Draco Malfoy becomes the only wizard to learn what exactly has become of Regulus Black, he makes a vow. Never will he share the traitorous Death Eater's fate. Yet every choice he makes - siding with the light, siding with the dark, siding with only himself - seems only to prod him further along that path.





	1. Prologue

**The Little King's Road**

* * *

 

_5th of April 1996_

He never finds out what prompted the first dream – why then, why there. He'd had dreams before, nightmares even. Like everyone else, he dreams of falling off brooms and playing on clouds. He dreams of disappointing his father and of lording over Harry Potter. And like everyone else, his dreams make sense when he's drowning in them, and lose all meaning upon waking up. Most, he doesn't think of twice.

This one though, is different. He doesn't recognize the place, he doesn't recognize the elf, and he doesn't recognize the man. Right from the start he knows that he does not know where he is or what is happening. He's somewhat aware that it isn't real, that he's just watching everything, maybe from a pensieve. He feels distant to it all. Funnily enough – not that there's anything remotely light about the dark ghastly setting he finds himself in – it also feels much more real than any dream. It's not just the images; he can smell, he can feel, he can touch. And the contradiction is what gets to him.

The cave is large – and Draco knows large and impressive. He's grown in large and impressive, but nothing quite so raw. Draco knew priceless villas; this, with its stalagmites and putrid air, was like stepping into the gargantuan mouth of an ancient Leviathan.

A young man who could only have been a few years older than Draco was walking further in. He holds himself most gracefully, with an air of aristocracy that Draco saw in his own family. There's no doubt that the man was from a correct upbringing. His long black hair is tamed, his robes without a singly crease, and his wand, the only source of light in the cave, holds an intricate and expensive design. Curiously though, Draco has never seen him before. Perhaps he comes from overseas, or from a more reclusive pure-blood family.

Limping next to him is a house elf, one of the most vile Draco has ever seen. It looks weak, and the creature – shame on it – is tightly holding on to its master's robes for support. Why the young wizard tolerates such behavior is a mystery, but there's no sign he's the slightest bothered by it. In fact, he walks slowly, as if to accommodate the creature.

The young man stops at the edge of the lake within the cave.

It is quiet.

The water doesn't move, and it is eerie. There is no wind, and for all it is humid, no drop falls to disturb the lake. The lake is so calm it is unnatural, even for a lake shielded by a dome of rock. The young man knows this just as much as Draco notices it; he crinkles his nose and takes a step back.

He is calm, he is controlled, but he is tense. Afraid. Wary.

There's something in his movements, a reluctance that Draco picks up on. The man wants to be anywhere but in this cave, but still he continues his way and summons a boat from the depths. Something is pushing him to continue, preventing him from turning back. And it's not a choice. It's not determination. It's not courage in his eyes, it's disgust and resignation.

The boat, or rather, the rotting bark that serves as a boat, sails smoothly over the water, glides, really. The ripples are too weak for what they are, and somehow Draco get the feeling that the water is heavier that it should be, more massive. It's a whale instead of a school of fish. There's something there. Something weighing it down.

They get on a small island, which looks like it is made of crystals.

"Kreacher," the man says, in a cool voice. He speaks clearly, but softly. He enunciates perfectly, and words come easy to him. "Remember what I asked of you. You must make me drink everything – what I say under its influence is  _not_  my will."

"Kreacher does as Master wishes," the elf responds with a miserable bow. Speaking those words seems to bring him even greater pain than whatever it is that already plagues him.

The young man nods, "if worst is to come, leave me behind."

"Master…!"

"I mean it," the young man's words are final, "I cannot go back – I can't. It's gone too long. I cannot live like this anymore. If we fail at retrieving the locket, then nothing changes. My wish, my greatest wish, is to destroy this locket. You will see it through – with or without me. And no one can know. That is an order."

His face remains passive, but his voice betrays the depth of his emotions with a small hitch that shouldn't have come from the man. Draco recognizes that face too. He's been taught to wear it, warned to cover his truths behind it. Whoever this man is, he's acquired a better mask of indifference than any other noble Draco knows, but one that seems permanently attached to his face.

There's a dark liquid pooling on top of one of the crystals, and the man takes a scoop. The elf looks concerned, terrified for his master. The man however, just stares. Had he been of any lesser birth, Draco guesses he'd be gulping, or breathing heavily. But he swallows it one sip like it's sweet cider.

And then the man, the pinnacle of composure, crumbles. The elf is quick to follow the movement, to try and catch his master and ward off any injury. The man is clutching at his throat now – rasping. Horror is openly displayed on his face, and Draco wants to get out. He doesn't want to see this. But he can't shut his eyes, for they were never open to start with. He feels the burn in his mouth, feels his stomach dissolve, just as the man in front of him curls up.

"You must drink, master," the elf insists, presenting him with another cup, hands trembling, and by Merlin, can't that incompetent creature see what it is doing to its master? "You must!"

The man grabs the second cup shakily, and drinks it. The first mouthful with wince, the second quicker, but with a sob.

And it doesn't stop. By the third cup, the young man is suppressing bouts of spasms. By the fourth he starts refusing. By the fifth he's angry. By the sixth, he's pleading.

Why.

Why was he subjecting himself to such torture?

Why was he lowering himself to such humiliation, and in front of lowly elf no less?

But despite his protests, he continues, and continues, and continues, and eventually the black liquid – the  _poison_ , to call it what it is – is gone. The young man is weakened. Relieved, but not nearly enough. The elf has switched the locket that had been at the bottom of the poison for an exact replica, and it's now at its master's side, tending to him.

The man attempts to get up, but his legs give in. The elf offers its support.

"Water…" the man manages. His clear voice has become harsh and dry. He's stopped using complete sentences six cups of poison ago.

"Master shouldn't," the elf denies him.

"Water!"

And as he roars the command, the young wizard frees himself from his elf and collapses on the border of the island. He's in a frenzy, no longer capable of reasonable thought. The poison has made him desperate for water – at all cost. But he shouldn't have disturbed the water.

He knows as much as soon as he has.

The inferi surge from the lake, and things only get worst. Their sight alone is deathly frightful. It's a storm of white bony limbs that breaks and crushes the lake's sleep.

Now there are countless of hands scratching and grabbing and ripping, and Draco can feel them get hold of his own limbs. He sees cloth and flesh being torn apart. He feels trapped, suffocating, just like the young man in front of him. He feels the fear he sees in the man's eyes.

The elf is yelling, pleading for his master to be let go. It's sending spells at the inferi – powerful, elven spells that few wizards could even match. But the dark magic puppeteering the inferi bounces it all off, and the young wizard slowly disappears, limb after limb, cry after cry.

The last Draco sees of the man is an arm shooting up, and that's when he notices the details. The Dark Mark on his arm. The Black family crest on his signet ring.

"Go, Kreacher!" he shrieks, " _Go!_ "

The elf hesitates. He shouldn't have, as a master's order is absolute, but Draco gets the feeling that it's not just a master he's losing. Yet in a blink, the elf is gone.

And then Draco is having trouble breathing. He feels icy cold water penetrating his lungs, and his panic melts to soreness, his struggle to sluggishness, the sounds around him deafen, the water falls back into rest, and slowly everything numbs away, as he sinks deep and deeper.

And then Draco Malfoy wakes up. He feels the usual wave of relief that comes after a nightmare, the handful of seconds it takes to collect oneself.

He doesn't forget the dream. He doesn't forget the young man.

He's still thinking about it when breakfast rolls around.

Crabbe and Goyle have been talking about the Easter holidays as if they were there for weeks already. It's customary with them. They've no doubt long stopped studying, thinking there's no point in cramming so close to the break, but it probably made no difference to their academic performance. There's a saying about reaching rock bottom, somewhere, but these two are quite capable of digging further.

Well, they leave today. Draco can't say he's not looking forward to it all.

Theodore Nott is the one who catches him lost in thought.

"I'd think your new title and the upcoming holidays would make you happier," the boy points out, sipping his coffee.

Draco absentmindedly fiddles with his new badge. Inquisitorial Squad – of course he's proud. He's been nothing but smug these past few days. There were just days where you felt like liquid luck, and by Merlin he had. Unfortunately it doesn't last. Draco always thought he had the stomach for gore, but now he isn't so sure. He can't stop seeing the young man's horrified face, hearing his screams. It ices his blood. Churns his stomach.

He's wary of the hands buttering up toasts around him, and of the black coffee in his own mug.

"Malfoy?"

"Feeling a bit under the weather, that's all," he admits, knowing he won't be able to keep a charade all day. Not in front of the other Slytherins, at least.

He must look pale, because Nott accepts the reply without raising an eyebrow.

How must it look like for him to be down at that moment? They'd just managed to get Dumbledore kicked out of the school, and busted Potter's secret clubhouse just four days ago. He should be celebrating; he had been, the night before.

Somewhere, he's angry. Angry that his victory is tainted by that dream.

Dreams usually vanished from thought quickly enough. So why was this one sticking?

His mind goes back to the drowning. He pushes away the horror, makes a conscious effort to focus on the important. The signet ring. The  _Black_  signet ring.

Draco knew where the Malfoy signet ring was; right on his father's finger. Who'd be carrying the Black one though? Traditionally, it would stay with someone carrying the surname. The only Black alive however, was Sirius Black, and he'd been disowned. His parents would never have handed it to him. Closest relations? Draco's aunt Bellatrix, and his own mother. Draco himself is a legitimate contender to inherit the Black family, a generation later.

But the one he'd seen had been a young man, with handsome features and slick black hair.

"Who  _is_  the head of the Black family nowadays?" Draco asks.

That, has Nott curious.

"Taking interest in a family that's not yours?" he teases, "No one, officially, I suppose. It's possible a few Black artefacts or houses may recognize Sirius Black as their owner, but legally he's not legible for any of it, not while he's on the run. 'Sides, no other sane family would recognize that prison mutt as the heir."

That made sense. Sirius Black could have inherited the ring with the rest of his family's belongings, in a magical sense.

But Sirius Black was a middle-aged wizard. The one he'd seen was barely out of Hogwarts, if he'd been out at all.

Draco collects his thoughts. He's taking this way too seriously, obsessing over something that has probably never happened. It is infinitely more likely that his brain concocted the twisted scenario. It couldn't have been real, because if it had – and the weight was starting to make itself known in his heart – then he'd just watched someone  _die_. No, it must have been the face of someone he's walked across in Diagon Alley, an elf he's caught a glimpse of at someone else's house, and a subconscious reminder of the blood that runs through his veins from his mother's side. That has to be it.

Yet a few hours of docking points from whoever crossed his path later, he startles as a black skeletal horse nudges him.

Most of the Hogwarts student population is pouring into the carriages to go towards the Hogwarts Express. As it is every year, it's a mess, albeit an organized one. Everyone is fretting about, looking after their friends and stuff, and no one has time to pay attention to anything else.

It is fortunate, because Draco isn't too sure how schooled his face is as he stares at the creature before him. He'd seen drawings of them, sketches, but the real thing was unnerving. It was gaunt, with pale pearls for eyes. Black – but save for that, the horse equivalent of an inferi, and Merlin had Draco enough of inferi for the day.

He takes a step back, and the creature takes one forward, playfully.

Thestrals.

He'd known. With this particular being however, seeing was altogether different. Seeing meant – well, there was no particular science behind it. How would one define 'witnessing death' anyways? Perhaps Draco's imagination had been detailed enough that it counted. Some scholars believed it was the understanding of death that made the cut. Draco was intelligent, it made sense for him to comprehend the subject at an early age.

"I am going to  _kill_  you!" A fuming third year yells at a snickering first year, and it makes Draco uncomfortable.

He makes a lot of jokes like that. About mudbloods being better off dead, blood traitors who should have perished in the war. He jokes about mastering the Unforgivables and using them on his worst enemies. Even in his own head, he fantasizes about it, about holding power over all those who defy him. He thinks they're clever. Most of the time, he honestly believes he'd rather see some people dead. They waste oxygen that should be kept for those who deserve it.

But this hyperbole makes him squirm today.

Death – he imagines something like that happening to him, and suddenly it isn't quite as fun as it used to be. It's ugly, and disgusting. The fear clings on to him. He could wish it on his worst enemies – he does – but then he thinks of  _them_  wishing it on  _him_ , and he can't – he can't entertain the thought. He doesn't want to take the risk. He doesn't want to – Merlin, death had been such a glorious thing in his mind, but it just doesn't suit the aristocracy as well as History makes it seem. Death is primal, barbaric,  _uncouth_.

Scary.

He's never been one for sympathy and pity. He knows that as long as it doesn't happen to him, he cares not what happens to others.

Death though, death happens to everyone.

Hiding his discomfort, Draco shepherds the students with snide remarks. A lot of them fear him already, and the pride that swells from it temporarily occupies his mind instead. But it's not a long reprieve – he's already thinking about it again in the train.

He makes himself a promise. Whatever is to come, wherever he would stand, he would  _not_  share that wizard's fate. Draco's safety comes first, and the rest of the world second.


	2. The Riddle : Bellatrix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two boys know a formidable witch.

**The Little King's Road**

* * *

The Riddle, Chapter One: Bellatrix

_Easter break, 1996_

"Come in, Draco," his mother tells him as she levitates his trunk into one of the house elves' arms, "you may be tired from your journey, but there is someone you must meet."

The journey itself was nothing tiring, and usually he'd give his mother a rather snide remark about being overbearing. He can hear himself argue that he's soon to be sixteen already, practically an adult, and that he should start to be treated like one,  _mother_. Then she'd dismiss him with an 'of course you are, dear' or a 'practically means you're not one yet,  _son'_  and the conversation would end there.

Today however, and Merlin was today a day of exceptions, he really is tired. He's spent the whole train ride mulling over his dream, despite his conscious efforts to do otherwise. It's not like him to look for a deeper meaning in dreams of all things - that's an occupation for twelve year old witches – but this one haunts him.

He has half a mind to whinge, but none of the energy. So he follows his mother mechanically and without protest into the parlour, and he finds his father waiting for him there, with a haggard witch he's only seen on the front page of the Daily Prophet. It startles him to see something so ragged in the midst of Malfoy Malfoy - a safe refuge for elegance, order, and beauty.

She's nothing like his mother, and it's hard to reconcile the fact that they're sisters. Instead, she's gaunt, skeletal, and her fine clothes hardly make up for her neglected skin and neglected hair. She holds herself straight however, and most of all, confident, like it doesn't matter that she looks like a bum in fancy dress. She's not trying to look pretty, more likely because she doesn't need to to be respected. She could be wearing a pumpkin costume and still no one would mock her. It's immediately evident that she is not a witch to cross, even without knowing her name.

Draco does know her name though.

"Draco Lucius Malfoy," the witch practically sings upon seeing him. Her voice is rasp, but that is to be expected. She's a lot happier than someone who's just spend years around Dementors should be, though. She crosses the distance between them in a few strides, and her bony hands are already cupping his face. "My nephew. The last time I saw you, you were barely an infant."

The fifteen year old blanks. He wasn't expecting her familiarity. Even with his immediate family there's rarely so much contact. He doesn't know this woman, and his ingrained reactions tell him to be disgusted and insulted by her behaviour. She's powerful, yes, but he'd think a Lestrange née Black would know to carry herself with more decorum. He understands now why his father was standing a step too far from the witch, and why his mother had ever so slightly scooted away from him the second they'd stepped into the parlour.

He makes eye contact with his parents, both of whom silently tell him to indulge the woman. Clearly he hasn't conveyed his desperate confusion enough.

Well, she has been in Azkaban for something like fourteen years. Perhaps she's starved for affection or some other idiocy of the sort.

"Aunt Bellatrix," he manages smoothly.

"Draco, Draco, Draco," she purrs, "your father has been telling me all about you. You are quite the talented wizard, aren't you? To be made House seeker in your second year, and to have such astounding grades!"

"Well, if I can say so myself, I do believe I am in the top few of my promotion," he agrees with pride. He's used to his father boasting about him, but it never hurts to hear about it more.

"Pity talent like yours is wasted at Hogwarts," the witch sighs, speaking thoughts he's had thousands of times during term as she brushes his hair comfortingly, "It was already much too soft a curriculum when I was a student there. I can only imagine it's gotten worst since."

Her sympathetic tone turns to annoyance, which unlike his parents', is openly displayed on her face. She's clearly not as concerned about appearances as they are, and Draco finds it almost refreshing. There are less walls around her, a lesser need for social conventions that everyone knows are completely useless but still insist on going through. She's not trying to be subtle with her criticism. Somehow, he feels like he can be honest with her as well.

"With incompetent buffoons like Dumbledore at the head of the school, it's only expected," Draco replies in disgust, "did you know that a whole chapter of OWL Transfiguration is dedicated to the ethics of the practice? It's pathetic, really."

There's a glint in her dark,  _dark_ , eyes and Draco isn't sure what to make of it. But his father is smiling proudly behind her, so he takes it as a good sign.

"At Durmstrang," she tells him, "the most tedious Transfiguration chapter is the most exciting one Hogwarts has to offer. Did you know that on top of the five axioms of Transfiguration Theory, Roderick Murk has also developed the Piair spell?"

"The Piair spell?" Draco frowns.

Bellatrix grimaces, "It's a transfiguration spell that makes air into stone."

Why is she telling him this?

"Well that's… Interesting," he lies.

"No it isn't," Bellatrix chides him with a click of her tongue, tapping his cheek, "that's how Hogwarts teaches you magic, isn't it? All theory and censorship – truly tragic, in my opinion." She flourishes her wand out of her robe and stabs the air, "it's not about what the spells do, but how you use them! Even the most basic ones can be turned into a real weapon if one's clever enough. I've once seen Rodolphus take out three Order members during the First war with a simple levitation charm. He'd use it on a small rock, see, and simply flicked his wand fast enough that the momentum knocked them out on impact."

It's in the way she speaks – she knows what she's talking about, and she's passionate about it. It hasn't really hit him before, but now Draco realises that he's never heard anyone talk about the First Wizarding war, not like that. He's had a timeline of events tediously recounted by Binns, and he's heard people wallow about the terror in the streets or chant of the glory of marching behind the Dark Lord – but no one's told him about the actual battles. No one's given him details. His aunt, however, speaks of it causally, and he realises that that's her life. She has breathed war and battle for most of her career, and she's never had the opportunity to mellow down.

"Alecto used the Piair spell to suffocate Ogrell – you wouldn't know her: mudblood from the Order. Alecto turned all the air around her head and in her lungs into stone. She struggled for a good three minutes before going limp," the woman continues, and Draco's stomach goes queasy for a second, imagining the woman desperately clawing at her own throat and frantically crying as she grew more hopeless. He'd forgotten about it – Bellatrix and her unusual flair had shocked it all out of his mind, and it's not long before she does so again.

"It's not an easy spell since the incantation is long, but that's why you work in pairs or more. The first thing you need to do before battle is analyse your arsenal: How much time a spell takes to cast, how long the incantation is, how much energy it requires… then it's all about which compromises you can afford to make. Having a partner gives you more freedom in the number of spells that are feasible in the heat of battle."

She makes valid points,  _useful_  points. It's nothing like the lessons at Hogwarts, not even the brief introduction to duelling they had in second year. She's speaking from experience, not from a need to guide students into peaceful civil obedience. More so, she's speaking about actual battles, not artificial duelling. It occurs to him that Bellatrix cares not about the self-sufficient academic world of Hogwarts. She cares about real life, about what works in practice instead of theory.

"But wouldn't that mean also having to watch their backs?" Draco points out, "Wouldn't that restrict one's movement just as much?"

Bellatrix nods encouragingly, "Yes, yes, of course. Communication and collaboration are key when working in a team. It's essential to remember however, that your opponents will suffer the same restrictions as you do. In fact, if you are fighting against multiple opponents, the best strategy is to disrupt their ranks by making them too preoccupied with the others to maintain vigilance for themselves. Let me tell you about the Roguesworth battle, at the beginning of the war. I believe your father and myself were tasked to get information from a muggle pub and –"

" _Bella_ ," Draco's mother interrupts them sternly, "I believe Draco has had a long journey. Surely he needs a bit of rest for now."

Suddenly he's back in the front parlour of Malfoy Mansion, standing in its entrance. He'd been so absorbed in Bellatrix's words that he'd completely lost track of where he'd been.

Draco can't tame the hint of annoyance as his mother calls him back to Earth. She always wants to keep him in line, to speak for him, but he's not a child anymore. His conversation with his aunt might as well be the most intelligent conversation he's had in a long time, and it's made him forget all about his other worries. Now that he's gotten over his hasty first impression, he finds Bellatrix to be a truly fascinating woman. Her experience out in the world is incomparable. She clearly has a deep understanding of powerful magic, and in a few words, she's already taught him more than five years at Hogwarts has. How can his mother not see that?

Of course she wants to tear him from it. She's always there to pull him from anything remotely fun or interesting. Mothers, really. You'd think they'd learn to loosen up a bit to let their children breath at one point.

"It's  _quite_  alright, mother," he tells her coolly.

His mother's eyes narrow, "Do not take that tone with me, my son."

"Perhaps Narcissa has a point," his father cuts in diplomatically, "we'll have all the time to resume this discussion at a later date. I believe you will be having dinner us with us tonight, Bellatrix?"

"Wouldn't miss it."

"I assure you, I'm  _fine_ ," Draco insists petulantly.

Bellatrix gives him a wolfish grin filled with pride, and his mother is all the more sour. She must be jealous that her son prefers her sister over her, Draco thinks with disdain. He expected his mother to be beneath such childish emotions.

"Do not worry Draco," Bellatrix tells him, "I'm sure I can make time for regular trips to Malfoy Manor. Oh, I could even teach you a thing or two, if you want. I have fourteen years of being an absentee aunt to make up for, after all."

Draco feels his eyes light up, "Do you really mean that?" He asks excitedly.

"Bella!" Draco's mother chides, and Draco is seconds away from responding with an equally indignant 'Mother!'

Luckily, his father beats him to it.

"A few extra lessons are  _harmless_ , Narcissa," he tells his wife pointedly, "I'm  _sure_  your sister will not let our son get hurt in the process. He's clearly eager to learn, and it will surely help polish his already brilliant grades."

The three older wizards exchange silent words, but it's two against one, and Narcissa Malfoy knows better than to cause a scene. No matter how much she wants to argue and protest, she chooses to keep her opinions to herself. There are better battles to be fought than ones that are already lost.

She sends her son a worried glance, but ultimately relents.

"Very well," she allows bitterly, "but we will be discussing this further between us, Lucius."

Draco can't help his grin. Between Hogwarts' rules and overbearing moral standards, his mother's concerns for his safety, and his father's lack of time, he's never had the opportunity to do some truly serious magic. Now though, he's finally done being treated like a glass object. Finally someone is willing to teach him something useful. Finally he's starting to get recognised as a real wizard, instead of a naïve first year to be stuffed in a protective bubble charm.

Bellatrix gives him a wink as the four of them part ways, and he's very glad he got to meet her.

* * *

It doesn't take long after the first meeting for Bellatrix to become a large part of Draco's daily life. To his surprise, she does come by every other day, and she does spare an hour or two for him. Sometimes, she eats with the family, and gifts them with the most riveting of tales from her past. His mother disapproves of course, blood is not a subject for a meal time, but his father is rather receptive of it, and that removes all doubts Draco has on the subject.

He doesn't know what he's most grateful to her for – her teachings, or giving him a way to deal with the irritating nightmare he'd had before returning home. It resurfaces occasionally, in the most mundane of moments – he's taken to showers instead of baths, and dilutes the black of his coffee with milk now – but it's become easy to keep his emotions from going astray.

Bellatrix speaks of horrors and death, but she does so methodically. She explains it rather than tells it. The desperately drowning man becomes a sack of flesh, and Draco does not worry about it anymore. It's one of the fundamentals, she says to him, keeping your emotions compartmentalised, dissecting what you see so you detach yourself from the situation enough to keep a cool head. Panic and empathy are some of the main causes of death in a war, she adds, and Draco doesn't see why that wouldn't be true. The second you feel for your opponent or even your friend, is the second you hesitate and get killed.

He likes it better that way anyway. His obsession over the dream is a sign of weakness, and he's sure that the more he learns from Bellatrix, the quicker he'll be rid of it for good.

Besides, there's something about his aunt. Being a pureblood wizard is all about standing straight and saying the right thing at the right moment, it's all about discipline and calculating one's every move. Yet Bellatrix cackles easily, especially in the face of topics one shouldn't even bring up in good company. He forgets why dark humour was starting to make him uncomfortable every time she recounts another of her exploits, and even shares a laugh or two with her. He understands what it means now, to so easily mock death. It means she does not fear it, it means that she's powerful and that she can afford it. It means that she does what she wants, and that it does not affect her standing amongst wizards in the least.

Draco grows to admire that.

Freedom, respect and happiness come with power. If there's one lesson that's sunk in during these holidays, it's this one.

The Easter holidays, however, are short. Too short. Draco does look forward to seeing his classmates again, if just to show them how much he's learnt, but he's also reluctant. It's the first time holidays have been so stimulating, and he feels like he stands at the beginning of something, of his career, of his future, of his life. He doesn't want to take a step backwards back to school and kid gloves. He wants to go forward only, forward always.

There's only a handful of days before he must take the train back when the ever so present tension in the house explodes. It's been building up for days of course, what with his mother giving him the cold shoulder every time he speaks of his lessons, and his father awkwardly playing the mediating owl.

Bellatrix has just arrived, and Draco is already waiting for impatiently in the duelling room, standing exactly where he should be. He's been waiting for this all morning.

"We'll continue on from yesterday, nephew," she tells him, taking her place at one end of the podium. He eagerly takes his wand out.

"You'll have plenty of time to continue another day," Draco's mother suddenly tells them, strolling into the duelling room with professor Snape at her heels. Her voice has the same effect as a cancelled Quidditch game on Draco's mood, and he feels the outrage mount in his chest.

"What is this about?" he sneers, "can't it wait?"

"I'm afraid not," she tells her son disapprovingly, "Severus has told me about all the assignments you have for school, and I have yet to see you crack open a book since you've been home."

School assignments have not even been thought of ever since Bellatrix had entered his life. They seem so pointless now, so ridiculous.

"I can be of some assistance, if you're having trouble with anything," the professor adds, explaining his presence. He doesn't look particularly enthusiastic, but then again, he never does. Draco has no doubt his mother badgered him to come.

"Come on, Cissy," Bellatrix nudges her sister, "give him space! You remember what it was like, being a student."

"Do not tell me how to parent my child, Bella," the youngest of the two replies coldly, "and I will not have you encourage delinquent behaviour in him. I've been patient with those lessons of yours so far, but I will have to ask you to put them on hold until Draco's done his homework."

Draco finds himself embarrassed at the mention of homework. Bellatrix never treats him like a child, not like his parents do. She does not train him with patience and understanding, but rather with judgement and expectations. She's not scared of treating him rough, and she does not censor herself to be child friendly. He doesn't want anyone reminding him or her of the gap in their age.

"Mother!" Draco growls, "I can handle my own schedule and work load, thank you."

"Forgive me if I don't take your word for it, Draco," she tells him, "you usually have it out of your way after the first few days of vacation."

"Exactly," he retorts, "when I have I ever not done my work on time? I know what it means to be Malfoy. I know not to embarrass myself.  _You're_  just looking for an excuse because you don't like that I'm learning so much from aunt Bellatrix!"

The witch gasps, shocked by her son's lack of respect towards her, "Draco! That is no way to speak to your mother!"

"What is it about me actually being interested in learning something that you don't like?" He demands, furious, "Why would you rather I waste my time with stupid school assignments that will never benefit me in life?"

"I assure you," professor Snape tells him in his usual unamused drawl, "that your assignments are not completely without purpose."

"In a few years I won't even remember them."

"In a few years is not  _now,_ " His mother shoots back, "By Slytherin's name, Draco, all I'm asking is for you to focus on your homework for a few days, not to abandon everything you care about until  _death_."

"I can do my homework perfectly well without interrupting my lessons with aunt Bellatrix, Mother," he tells her.

"Will you?" She challenges him.

"Draco is bright young man," Bellatrix defends him, "I'm sure he's capable of it."

"This is between my son and I, Bella, and I should think you've done enough."

"Don't blame aunt Bellatrix's for this," Draco huffs.

"How could I not?" his mother asks, "you were never like this before. Your  _aunt Bellatrix_ has always had a disruptive influence on anyone she touched."

Disruptive? It wasn't disruption – Draco's mother just didn't like that he didn't follow her every order anymore, that he was starting to form his own opinions. Bellatrix had opened his eyes to a whole new facet of life, and all his mother was doing was trying to chain him to their nest, scared to be left behind.

"I was never like  _what_?" he returns, "Honest? I won't be your cute puppet forever, Mother."

_Slap!_

There's a pause as everyone takes a moment to understand what has just happened. Bellatrix and professor Snape are frozen, surprised. Draco has a hand on his cheek and his eyes are wide in indignation, and his mother, well, his mother has her wand straight out, pointing to her son. Her eyes are angrier than anyone present has ever seen them, and the red in her face is completely uncharacteristic for her.

Her breath is quick, as if she's about to explode. No one had ever thought it possible to make Narcissa Malfoy lose her composure like that.

"You have," she starts, slowly, "no  _idea_  what I would do for you. If you ever,  _dare_  insinuate again that what I do, I do for anything but love for you, you will  _deeply_  regret it, my child."

"You hexed me," Draco says blankly, still trying to comprehend, "you  _hurt_  me."

"I'm not the first mother to cast a slapping hex on an ungrateful child," she tells him, and there's no remorse in her voice.

"You hurt me!" He cries again, and this time, the situation has caught up to him. It angers him that his mother would dare raise a hand against him. She has never before. She's always told him he was her most precious thing, and people don't hurt their most precious things.

Draco concludes that children are only precious as long as they're obedient, and he has no intention of indulging her further. She's made her point, and Draco hopes he's making his as they glare at each other in a stand still.

"Don't you dare call yourself my mother again," he finally spits out as he storms off.

* * *

After the commotion, Lucius finds his son in his room, sulking on his bed. He's not entirely sure he should be proud of Draco for being so quick to throw a tantrum, but part of him is relieved he is. The fact that Draco so arduously speaks his heart means that he isn't the type to be walked all over, it means that it will be all the more harder for anyone to abuse him. It's hardly fun when it's aimed at Lucius himself, but when it's not, the older wizard can't help but be a little bit fond of his raging dragon.

He sits on the border of the bed. Draco's back is facing him.

He wasn't there, so he cannot be sure to understand what has transpired, but he trusts Severus's recount of the event.

"I don't understand why she can't just be happy for me," the younger Malfoy fumes, words partially muffled by the pillow he's holding tightly, "her sister is one of the most renowned dark witches of this age, and she's willing to make time to teach me!"

His father puts a hand on his shoulder – the height of Malfoy affectionate expression, and answers him, "Your mother is simply worried for you. I'm sure you've noticed that Bellatrix is rather…  _eccentric_ , and for all she loves her sister, I believe Narcissa fears she might influence you too much. But she'll come around eventually, Draco. Give her time."

"She's never going to accept I'm growing up."

"You'll never stop growing up, Draco," he says, "and we'll never stop have a hard time accepting all the changes in your life. You cannot blame your mother for being a mother."

"She  _hurt_  me."

"You've hurt her more."

"How so?" Draco scoffs, finally turning to face his father. There's still a red mark on his cheek. "She hexed me!"

"Trust me, Draco," he informs his son, "Your words are sharper than any spell could ever be against Narcissa. You're the only person who could ever get her to hurt you, and in a few years, maybe, you'll understand how much it means your mother loves you."

"It sure doesn't seem like it," the young wizard grumbles.

Perhaps a bit less stubbornness would have been preferable, Lucius mentally amends.

"Let me talk to your mother," he asks of Draco, "let me convince her to let you and Bellatrix continue your lessons. In the meantime, how about you get started on that work of yours? I'm afraid we've dragged Severus into some rather unpleasant family drama, and I would hate to have disturbed his day for nothing. We all need to take a breather, and by the time dinner rolls in, hopefully we'll be able to discuss this civilly around the table."

Draco doesn't reply right away, but Lucius knows it's his pride keeping him from doing so. No one likes making compromises.

" _Fine_."

The next step is to find Narcissa, but that's not a very difficult one. They're very alike in that aspect, both Draco and Narcissa. They're quick to hide themselves away when emotions overwhelm them, and they always chose their most personal of spaces. Hence Lucius finds her in the greenhouse which, unlike their room, is uniquely hers.

She's tending to flowers that have already been tended to enough. In truth, she's just occupying her hands. It means she's restless.

"How rare to see you engage in battle," he teases her. He knows she saw him coming, his dark robes are a stark contrast to the colourful jungle she cares for.

Narcissa gives him a cold glare.

It's no secret that Narcissa Malfoy has never liked violence. There's a reason she didn't take Defense Against the Dark Arts at school, why she never joined the Death Eaters. She's always left the dangerous stuff to her eldest sister, and more often then not, she avoids verbal spars as well. She makes a vicious opponent in those, but that doesn't mean she enjoys partaking in them any more than she would in a war.

"Oh, don't think I do not know what the two of you are doing," she tells him angrily, "Bella, rambling on about gruesome battles on their first meeting? Any fifteen-year-old boy would be excited at stories about the dirty side of war. I swear, this morbid fascination teenagers have with violence… And teaching him Occlumency, of all the Dark Arts? That's a skill for war, for resisting interrogation and keeping secrets, Lucius, not for self-defence."

She's talking too much, almost rambling. Her fight with Draco is tearing her apart.

It's not his intention to pull wool over his wife's eyes. Of course she realised why they were so eager to make Draco into a proper wizard. Narcissa has never been a fool, after all, and Lucius has never been foolish enough to think otherwise. It's her being so against the idea that surprises him the most.

"Would you not be proud for your son to serve the Dark Lord?" He asks his wife, carefully.

"Of course I would!" She snaps at him, "But he's  _fifteen_ , Lucius. He should not be thrown in the midst of this, not yet. He's too young!"

"He's our child, we'll always think him too young," Lucius points out sadly.

Narcissa gives him a frown, and she crosses her arms over her chest. She looks severe when she does that, angry. Lucius, however, has known her for too long. The gesture is how she shrinks on herself, how she curls into a ball without doing so. It means she's scared, unsure, and she wants him to know.

"Some days, he reminds me of Regulus," she admits quietly.

Lucius thinks back to the quiet boy he'd briefly known. A yes-man if he'd ever met any. He can't remember ever having heard the boy speak for himself or go against anyone. Regulus Black had been a follower from day one, a follower of tradition, a follower of the Black coat of arms, and finally a follower of the Dark Lord. Lucius's son, on the other hand, complained at the slightest of inconveniences.

He chuckles fondly, "Draco is nothing like Regulus, dear," he tells her, rubbing his hand in circles on her back reassuringly as she leans on him, "their personalities are so opposite I wonder how you've made the connection at all. Besides, there's no harm in preparing him a bit early; it's not like we're making him take the Mark tomorrow. He still has years of his life before he must choose."

* * *

_September 1971_

_The adults spoke in hushed tones these days, and his cousins were on a sharp edge. Even Narcissa, the less explosive of the three – Regulus knew he'd have to reconsider the count soon – was in a considerably dour mood. There were talks of inheritance and marriage and family politics, sprinkled with slander of betrayal and grumbles of 'a filthy mudblood how could she do this to us?' Both Bella and Cissy were suddenly much more open with their opinions concerning blood purity and traditions – Bella, who almost cared only about power, and Cissy, who never started something as beneath her as a political debate. But Merlin forbid anyone thought they were like their blood traitor of a sister._

_Andy, of course, was not to be spoken of. In fact, Regulus was fairly certain his parents expected him not to even_ think _her name anymore._

_So Regulus watched as his uncle Cygnus pushed his daughter further instead._

_They were in the garden of Cygnus and Druella Black_ _'_ _s mansion. It was beginning September, and both Sirius and Cissy were at school. Bella had just graduated, and Regulus would only start the year after, so they saw each other more often than usual._

_He'd seen duelling competitions before with his father, but there were rules in duelling competitions, restrictions. Cygnus had placed none on either of them. For the first time, Regulus got to witness just how a real wizard fight was like._

_It was strange to see Bella like that. He didn_ _'_ _t know if it was because of the duelling or the current situation, but she was focused, precise, serious. With that expression on, he could believe that she was indeed Cissy_ _'_ _s sister. There was still a small smirk playing on her lips, and a spark of excitement in her eyes, but it was nowhere near as loud as usual. It was intense instead, concentrated._

_They casted spell after spell, and even though Cygnus had the obvious upper hand, there were moments where it seemed like Bella would break through his defences. Even as she ran out of breath, the wide variety of spells in her arsenal was mesmerizing. Where her father used minimal movements and faint shield charms, Bella transfigured hedges of the garden into krakens and cast curses that shattered the ground. Some of it was colourful, some terrifying, and all awe-inspiring, especially for a ten year old. She was like a storm raging against an ant, and it was beautiful._

" _Break,_ _"_ _Cygnus called, lowering his wand._

_His daughter took advantage of his lowered defences to throw in a vicious jinx, but her wand flew away from her hand and into her father_ _'_ _s before she could even finish the incantation._

" _There is no need to hide, little king," Cygnus said, turning to the bush behind which Regulus was crouching. The man had taken to using that nickname for Regulus a few years back, and Regulus wondered if he'd stop once he wasn't so little anymore. "Come forward and watch carefully – it is never too early to learn."_

_Regulus did as told, sitting himself on the marble stairs nearby, and as soon as Cygnus had thrown Bella her wand back, the show resumed._

_It lasted for a good thirty minutes before the older wizard allowed them to stop, thirty minutes during which Regulus had not moved an inch, as transfixed on the fight as he had been. Cygnus then spent another ten minutes going over the flaws in Bella_ _'_ _s performance before dismissing her._

_Soon enough, the young woman collapsed in a slouch next to Regulus, her breath laborious._

" _Will I be able to do that?" Regulus asked his cousin in open wonder._

_She ruffled his hair with a smile, "One day. It's good that you're taking an interest in the Dark Arts, unlike our siblings. Don't stray from that, Reggie, I will teach you myself if I have to."_

_There was something wicked in the way Bella smiled, an ominous hunger. He'd later learn that Bellatrix Black wasn't one for familial love – that all she cared about was shaping her family into perfect soldiers for her beliefs. She was his cool cousin, and he was her next little pet project. A ten year old Regulus Black, however, had none of the experience required to pick up on that. It follows that he beamed gratefully, and allowed himself to be fooled into thinking that he really was the Black she was most fond of, that they really did share a special bond over their interest for the Dark Arts._

_For weeks after that, young Regulus dreamt of casting Bella's spells at imaginary enemies. He had never imagined he'd be so eager to learn magic. He had wanted it, of course, but all he had seen of magic at that point were colour changing spells, apparition, and other mundane applications. Thinking that such power would be in his grasp, one day, was better than any sugar rush. He couldn't wait to get his wand!_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because fifteen year old Draco Malfoy is still a massive prat, and obviously the Malfoys have to be dramatic about everything.
> 
> Just a small point about where this story is heading: I wrote the first chapters about a year ago, and the tone might differ a bit starting from chapter 3 (or 4, counting the prologue) though hopefully not too much. While rather serious for now, there will be humorous moments to come, mostly on account of Draco Malfoy being such a caricature of a character in the books (the boy is so extra i love him).


	3. The Riddle : Avoidance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two boys deal with their problem by pretending it doesn't exist.

**The Little King's Road**

* * *

The Riddle, Chapter Two: Avoidance

_Easter Break, 1996_

Dinner, as expected, is an awkward affair. It's never an overly fun moment, of course, with Draco being the only youth at the table and the adults being bent on proper etiquette and conversation, but it's usually not this tense. Draco knows what people think of his family – stuck up and cold – but he's always chalked it up to ignorance and jealousy. At a normal Malfoy dinner, chatter, though censored, is pleasant and interesting, and smiles, while not excessive, are certainly well spread.

Today, however, the table is quiet and grim.

If there were any doubts that Draco was Narcissa's son, it's all been dissipated. They're both silently fuming, too proud to make the first move. Severus Snape will roar in laughter before either of them relents, and everyone knows how likely that is.

Bellatrix is relatively unconcerned. She eats like she would without the cold war brewing around her, but she has the tact not to speak. The witch has a modicum of self-awareness, no matter how much others like to believe she doesn't. Besides, she is the straw that broke the camel's back, and there's no sense in breaking its limbs as well. She prefers the camel on its own feet than on her own back after all.

Draco's father and professor Snape, though masters at keeping their emotions hidden, are clearly uncomfortable and hesitant. The two arguing Malfoys have uncontrollable tempers, and neither man is likely to want to set either off. It's a delicate matter, navigating between a raging sea and a stormy sky.

Luckily, Lucius is the patriarch of the Malfoy family, and he's dealt with his family's tempers more than once.

"This issue will never be resolved if we don't get to it," he says, and it's so sensible no one can reasonably snap at him. There's no pause in the silent eating, but the lack of rebuke means everyone's willing to listen.

"There's a war coming," he continues, and that brings a reaction out of Draco, at least. The young wizard startles at his father's straight-forward declaration, especially concerning an issue everyone's been dancing around for a year. "The Dark Lord has returned, and it is likely his opposition won't take things lying down. Narcissa, my love, I am sure you remember how it was the first time around."

The woman in question gives him a reluctant look, "Of course I remember, Lucius," she tells him, reproaching him for implying the opposite.

"Whatever happens," he tells her, "I think we'd both be more at ease if Draco is prepared. It's not about making him a perfect soldier—"

"He's too young to fight," she cuts him off.

"He needs to be able to defend himself regardless," Lucius insists, "our family is too close to the war, what would you have him do when he gets caught in it?"

"He doesn't  _need_  to fight," Narcissa tells him sourly, "we can protect him."

"I assure you, if I do get caught in the war, it'll be willingly," Draco inputs with a huff, "and mother, surely you don't intend to have me stick by your side until I'm sixty?"

"He'll have to learn eventually," Bellatrix agrees, "Might as well be now. Besides, he's promising."

"Draco," Narcissa asks her son, "you've never done anything because you  _might_  need to - do you  _want_  to be stuck in the middle of the war? Is that why you're so eager to learn how to fight? Don't argue that it's for self-defence; I've seen the spells you're learning."

"So what if I want to fight?" Draco challenges her, and at his side, Lucius is shaking his head tiredly, "I'll be of age in a little more than a year, and I have every intention of joining the Dark Lord in our cause."

Bellatrix beams at this, but Lucius grounds her with a look.

"While I would  _undoubtedly_  be proud of you for doing so, my son," he tells him, "your mother is right. Actively joining the Dark Lord isn't a decision to take lightly, and it's certainly one you're too young to take now."

"What else am I going to do? Join  _the_   _Order_?" Draco snorts.

"You could get out of the country," Narcissa suggests, softly, "I'd come with."

"Be careful, Cissy," Bellatrix tuts, "I'd almost think you object to the Dark Lord's fight."

"I will never refute his noble cause," the younger sister hisses, "but I certainly wish it wouldn't come at so high a risk."

"The world doesn't get better by doing nothing," Lucius replies, sombrely.

"Father's right," Draco agrees, "someone needs to put all the muggle filth in their right place."

"And that would be  _you_?"

Draco goes red, but Narcissa catches herself before any more hurtful words can be said, "I'm just – Draco, I don't think you understand the scope of what you're getting into. I just want you to take a couple more years before rushing into anything. Merlin knows the First Wizarding War wasn't as glamourous as any of us expected it to be, and I fear you may be making the same assumptions we did back then. You haven't seen war, Draco, you haven't lost anyone to it yet. You shouldn't have to repeat our mistakes."

Draco hates that tone of hers, the one that repeatedly reminds him that he's a  _child_ , and that as a  _child_ , he knows nothing. That's the thing with adults – they always think their experience makes them smarter and wiser than their juniors. It might be true, in some instances, but one's age does not make one's thoughts and words negligible. Being young doesn't mean not being able to take decisions or speak for oneself. Just because Draco is fifteen, it doesn't mean he doesn't  _matter_.

The young wizard is tired of being overlooked and taken for a fool because of his age.

"Even so," Draco answers heatedly, "I will never learn anything if you never let me out into the real world."

"Wait, is this about Reggie?" Bellatrix suddenly puts together, cutting the tension in half.

There's a small beat where cutlery stops clinking and jaws stop chewing. It's like everyone's received surprising news – not improbable, or mind blowing, just unexpected, then quickly accepted. The pause draws out into a sigh, and finally Draco's mother closes her eyes in admission.

The dinner resumes.

"Reggie," Draco repeats, implicitly asking for an explanation.

" _That_ , is a name I haven't heard in a long time," professor Snape comments.

"Who is Reggie?" Draco demands.

"Regulus Black," his father supplies.

"My cousin, the son of –"

"I know who Regulus Black was, mother, thank you," Draco cuts in. He's studied the family tree enough to put a context to the name, once he had gotten the full one, "but what's he got to do with anything?"

"Regulus Black was a boy with a lot of potential," his mother tells him, wistfully, "he had excellent grades, and was one of the most polite young man I'd ever known – I'd even say he was the most proper of the five Blacks in our generation," Bellatrix tilts her head in agreement, "he had a kind soul, but he plunged it into the war when he was still in school. Like you, the Dark Arts interested him to no end, and he thought working with the Dark Lord would further his knowledge and his horizons. He died when he was a few days shy of eighteen – he only had one term left before he finished school, Draco. He was too young, and I'm terrified something similar will happen to you. That's why I do not want you following into his footsteps. That's why I insist on taking your time before delving into anything."

" _Everyone_  had a risk of dying back then," Bellatrix dismisses, "I think we should be proud if your son becomes anything like Regulus. He was nothing like that rotten brother of his – Reggie had the right ideas, the right opinions. He'd never gallivant around mudbloods and blood traitors like Sirius did!"

" _Bella_ ," Draco's mother warns her sister.

Bellatrix turned to Draco, her voice adopting the tone for a grand epic, "He was the youngest death eater to  _ever_  be recruited by the Dark Lord, and the Dark Lord himself was quite impressed with him. He brought honour to our family, and I'm sure he would have rose to become one of the Dark Lord's most trusted if he hadn't died. He had a way with the Dark Arts, Regulus. I admit I thought he'd surpass me, even. There's no one I'm prouder to be related to."

"I believe he was a friend of yours, Severus?" Lucius asks the professor, who nods, "not many had the privilege of being so, and that alone should tell what an accomplished wizard he was."

"Regulus was not a common boy, and very private," the professor allowed, "Even as a child he was wiser and more mature than most. He may have been a year younger, but I must admit I actually… appreciated his company. He was intelligent, and well read. How on Earth he was related to his mutt of a brother, I still wonder."

That was the most fondly Draco had ever heard his Head of House speak of anyone. In fact, he'd never thought he'd see the people around him explicitly agree on someone's worth so openly, except maybe the Dark Lord's. It's more than just respect, they all seem to have cared somewhat for this Regulus Black.

"With how much you all appear to have loved Regulus Black, I'm surprised I've never heard you mention him before," Draco points out.

"He died young, and a long time ago," Lucius explains, "There's very little to say about him."

"We don't like to be reminded of those we've lost so early," his wife adds, "it's not a happy subject, and I should think Regulus deserves better than to be pitied forever."

A small silence settles where Narcissa surely intended to end the conversation. Draco, however, is fifteen, and fifteen-year-olds sometimes prefer a good story to a tactful moment.

"So," Draco asks, "what happened to him? How did he die?"

Narcissa's nose crinkles at her son's morbid curiosity, but before she has a say in it, professor Snape answers.

"A lot of people died in the most mysterious of circumstances during the war, Draco," he tells the boy, "a lot went missing as well. Regulus is just another name in that list. We're lucky enough to learn that he died at all."

"There were quite a lot of rumours though," his aunt adds with a conspiratorial smirk, "I once heard that he died fighting Dumbledore of all people. There was a hypogriff involved, and a jelly-leg jinx."

"Bellatrix," Lucius sighs, "you shouldn't repeat baseless rumours.  _Naturally_ , everyone in the Order believes he was killed by Death Eaters for committing a mistake or deserting, and everyone on our side thinks that he's been killed by a stray Order member. Everything is plausible; there were more than enough altercations between both sides outside of great battles. A lot of things happened that we have no knowledge of and most likely never will. One day, Regulus's death date appeared on the Black tapestry, and that's all there is to say about it."

Bellatrix shrugs, "The Dark Lord never gave the order, and he was quite disappointed himself when he learnt what happened. He had high hopes for the boy."

"So, we just, don't know?" Draco concluded, "We never found his body?"

" _Enough_  on the subject," Narcissa ordered tiredly, "it is spoiling the food."

"But Mother, aren't you curious?"

The woman grimaced irritably, "I was, once. Regulus was my favourite cousin –"

"Our  _only_  cousin as far as I'm concerned," Bellatrix inserted with a huff as she examined her nails.

"—and I was overwhelmed with grief when I first learnt of his death. But my aunt Wallburga went mad and my grandfather Arcturus died over this mystery, and I have no intention of wasting my health on a question I know I will never be able to answer. I mourn his death, and that will have to be  _enough_."

This time, no one contests as Narcissa forcibly ends the conversation.

Except, Draco wants to know more about this Regulus Black now. It seems like he must have been a truly exceptional character, to be respected as he was in this family. Professor Snape had actually considered him a friend. Snape – a  _friend_. The idea would have been ludicrous had the acidic man not confirmed it himself. And Bellatrix, how Draco wishes she'd one day speak of him that way: with pride and admiration. To be the youngest Death Eater in History...

The only thing Draco could not understand was how someone clearly so talented and loved could be spoken of so little.

Surely a person so bright would not vanish in the shadows like he had. Surely his end had to come in a grander way than 'no one knows'. There had to be more to the story, Draco could not imagine accomplishing so much only to never be thought of again.

The dinner ends with a compromise; that Bellatrix's lessons would continue but that any spare time would be dedicated to homework under professor Snape's supervision until none of it is left.

* * *

Severus isn't overly fond of his memories of Hogwarts. Most of the time, he elects to ignore them and pretends none of it has ever happened. It's an excellent coping mechanism, no matter how unimpressingly high Albus's eyebrow rises when he alludes to it.

Today is a rare day however, and Severus feels nostalgic. It happens once every blue moon, when he catches himself thinking of Lily and childhood he ruined himself. The very nature of these memories make remembrance a bitter thing. Regulus Black though, has no such crippling darkness associated to his name. Severus hasn't spared a thought to the boy in years, and he's surprised he doesn't immediately dismiss it when one comes. He wouldn't exactly say he's  _glad_  Narcissa brought him up – Severus hasn't done glad ever since a rotten hat separated him from his best friend – but maybe he's a little thankful for the reminder that not his whole school life was a complete murk of depression and bad decisions.

He remembers Regulus well, of course, in the only way that Regulus could be remembered. In the background, but always watching, listening. He'd been like a boy made of mirrors, who reflected the world around him, but never showed what was behind the glass.

If he were to lie, Severus would say that the boy's death had devastated him, but during those days, people were dying left and right and he'd reacted to the news with nothing but sincere condolences to the young wizard's family. It was no shock that in death, Regulus had become the very definition of 'out of sight, out of mind,' just like he had been of his living. It's something that had always made Severus, as well as anyone who knew Regulus well, uneasy: How simple it was to overlook him, and how warmly Regulus welcomed it.

The complete opposite of some  _other_  pureblood scion Severus could mention.

Dislike is something that comes naturally to Severus, but he can't possibly harbour such feelings towards Draco Malfoy. He's seen the boy grow from a baby to a young man, and he can't help but be a little,  _ugh_ , fond of him. However, he will not deny that he can't wait for him to  _grow up a little_. As adorable as they had been when he'd been a four-year-old wanting to impose his dominion over the wizarding world, Draco's arrogance and self-entitlement are now borderline causes for justified homicide. He's a bloody headache well on its way to becoming a migraine on a good day, and Severus doesn't even want to  _consider_  bad days lest he gets an ulcer.

The professor pinches the bridge of his nose, a gesture he's become well accustomed to after years of teaching at Hogwarts.

"And why," he asks slowly, "are you not focusing on the list of ingredients for pimple paste?"

Homework resumed after dinner, as it grates both Severus and Draco to leave a half finished essay lying around.

They've settled on the porch by the garden, which would have been cold were not for the heating charms placed around it. Draco had insisted on it, possibly wanting away from the lingering tension in the house, and away from his mother looking over his shoulder. Narcissa wasn't being discrete with her regular check-ups on Draco's work, but she wasn't trying to be. She wasn't overly fond of the porch at night though, since its only redeeming quality during the day is the sight of the garden.

Still, after complying to his wishes, Severus would think the least Draco could do is concentrate on his parchment.

"Sorry, professor," Draco apologises insincerely. He never does sincerely. The boy was brought up thinking apologies were a social cue, after all. "I was just thinking about our conversation earlier. I still don't understand how Regulus Black came to become such an obscure character. I'd think my father would have told me all about him growing up going by how respected he was."

Severus lets out a carefully controlled sigh, "I don't think to care why exactly Regulus fascinates you so much."

"He received the Dark Mark when he was still at Hogwarts!" Draco tells him, "Of course I'm curious."

He understands Narcissa, why this eagerness in her son distresses her. They all know where this is eventually going to lead, and Severus himself is not so far from the poster child for hastily joining the wrong crowds. There's nothing he can say about it of course, without risking revealing his current allegiances, not to mention that Draco is not the type to listen to what doesn't agree with him anyways. One boy's life is hardly worth losing a war over.

He wouldn't have made the parallels between Regulus and Draco were it not for Narcissa, but now he finds he can't overlook them. Draco, has no doubt reached the same conclusion. Has Regulus perhaps become some sort of goal for Draco? A target to aim for? It wouldn't be surprising. Severus knows Draco has been testy about being treated like a child – he  _is_  a fifteen year old teenager after all – and Regulus is the perfect counterexample to adult condescension. He's living proof (unfortunate choice of words) that it is possible for Draco to prove himself. The former Death Eater wants to argue that Regulus was wise and Draco is most certainly not, but he knows better than taunting the boy like that.

Some lessons, have to be learnt the hard way, no matter how frustrating for the onlooker.

It's like watching a train head straight for a cliff at full speed.

"I wouldn't presume to make any assumptions about him," the professor dismisses, "Now go back to—"

"But he was your friend, right? You  _knew_  him."

Maybe it's because he grew up in wildly different circumstances that Severus doesn't find this behaviour endearing.

It takes a lot of self-restraint for him not to bash his young charge's head against the wall. Narcissa and Lucius would probably not take it took kindly to have their son rough handled in their own house, however, so instead he replies patiently, "It's the mark of anyone who truly knew him,  _not_  to make assumptions. Regulus, if anything, was a hard man to read, and it was proof of friendship to realise that fact. Now if you would, that list isn't going to write itself, Mr. Malfoy."

Had Draco been just a little less Malfoy, he'd have badgered Severus further, but luckily even he knows not to push him too far. He grabs his quill and gets back to work, dipping it in his inkwell without leaving a single drop on the circular garden table.

Severus is immensely glad for the quiet that follows.

He was lying to himself, earlier, when he thought he'd only come to the porch in compliance to Draco's wishes. He's glad for their location. Severus doesn't like spending hours coped up in the Manor; ostentatious luxury has always made him feel queasy. Large houses and silk robes singled him out in Slytherin when he'd been a student, and again amongst the Dark Lord's followers. He's both proud and ashamed of his own circumstances. Proud that he's a lot less superficial than his peers, and ashamed to be so crucially aware of the gap between them. It had been worst to beginning with, as a half-blood supporting blood-supremacy. Nowadays, it was really just a small, irritating itch.

He likes simple and minimal places, small and private. The latter two don't exactly describe the Malfoy Manor, but Severus will settle for nature. He even wishes the charms wouldn't stop the chilly breeze.

A thestral passes by.

There is a handful of them around Malfoy Manor, but no one ever talks about them, and they rarely show themselves except in the dead of night. Severus has long grown used to seeing them.

This one stays a healthy distance away from the house. It parades around for a bit, then goes trotting off.

Severus often wonders why Lucius keeps them around, but then he remembers that it's Lucius he's talking about, and that Lucius likes keeping around anything that's rare and special. He's somehow managed to train the thestrals away from his peacocks. The potion master suspects that slightly less than legal charms were involved.

Having occupied his mind for a bit, Severus looks back to check on Draco's progress. He's written a few additional paragraphs since, and as always, his working pace is quite diligent. For all he believes himself superior, Draco at least has the credit of taking his standing seriously and working hard to prove to everyone else that he is, indeed, better. Severus thinks he shouldn't encourage the already spoiled boy to think so highly of himself, but nothing motivates him better than standing on top of the world.

To his surprise, he catches Draco throwing a furtive glance at the garden, almost a fearful one. There's not much to look at in the dark of the night, and Severus knows for a fact that Draco isn't afraid of the dark.

There's only one thing it can mean.

The thestral. Draco can see the thestral.

How would he even be able to see a thestral? Draco Malfoy is nothing if not a sheltered rich boy. At home, he lives in a rosy bubble, over protected from the horrors of life by his parents. At school, he's under Albus's supervision, and Albus usually tries to keep the dying within his school to a minimum. For the life of him, Severus can't come with a reasonable explanation as to how Draco has encountered death. It had to have been recently – he's never noticed such reaction in Draco before, and he'd be more comfortable around the creatures if it hadn't been.

He expects Draco to grimace in disgust or to proudly point out how grown up he is to be able to see the creature, but instead he just returns to his work, with more focus and a strong determination not to look at the horse again.

This discretion is very unlike Draco. Draco usually gets a papercut and it's the end of the world. Yet there the boy is, pretending as if nothing happened. Severus could be wrong, of course, about the thestral, but somehow he doesn't think so. Not when his elegant writing has suddenly turned sharp and tense.

He wonders why Draco doesn't say anything, about the thestral, but it's not his place to dig into the boy's private life. He's growing up, and it won't be the last time he'll have secrets.

He mentally re-evaluates the young wizard. Clearly there are things about the boy that no one knows, and that no one would suspect. Perhaps he is more like Regulus than originally believed, with hidden sides and private depths.

The thought, Severus finds, is ominous.

* * *

The thestral surprised Draco. He'd never realised there were thestrals in his own back garden. No one ever told him. It's not unusual, he guesses, for people who can see them not to point them out. In fact, he's never met anyone who has. Still, to think these creatures have been roaming around Draco for years without him knowing wasn't a reassuring thought.

There's also the matter of the… uneasiness.

No.

It's just a thestral. It doesn't even do anything except stand there. It's a lowly creature like any other, and all it does is eat, sleep and repeat. That Draco can see them is an accident, or maybe proof of a higher capacity for understanding abstract concepts. Either way, there isn't anything to ponder about.

Draco feels absolutely nothing about the mundane horse in his garden.

He focuses on his work instead of letting his mind wander of in paranoid territory. It's unhealthy to be fixated on a sight that isn't even uncommon among the wizard folk. He's past the age now, he needs to stay focused on the concrete.

Like his essay.

Draco finishes his potion assignment in a reasonable amount of time, barely five minutes off the time he had predicted it would take him. He's very meticulous about schoolwork.

Snape gives him a nod of approval, and releases him from his obligations for the evening. His father intercepts him on the stairs on the way to his room, holding some sort of frame on his hands.

"That's him," his father explains, pointing at a young man in the picture, "Regulus Black."

The name spikes Draco's interest, and he glances at the picture obligingly.

He regrets it the moment he does though, because what stares back is a face he's seen before, and one that has been haunting him for a while. He's seen it deformed with horror after all, screaming in pain and whimpering,  _begging_ , to be spared by the poison. But that could not have been Regulus Black, because Regulus Black could not have met such a pathetic, gruesome end. Not after everything professor Snape, Bellatrix, and his own mother had to say about the young wizard.

Thinking about thestrals suddenly becomes an escape, but he can't seem to take it.

Regulus Black had been a bright young man, a pureblood of the most noble of families. Draco had admired him, wanted to step into his shoes but he'd promise himself never to end like  _that_ and - He had been clever and talented and gifted, and no one like that could have – it just wasn't possible. Something this degrading did not happen to people like him, people like them, people like Draco. Or would his mother be right? Was there absolutely no way for Draco to take charge of his life, achieve great things, without fucking up that badly?

His dream had to be wrong. He must have seen a picture of Regulus before, and his mind must have crafted it all. It's the  _only_  explanation. No one knew what had become of Regulus Black after all. No one. It was all a dream. Just a dream. Only ever a dream.

He doesn't really believe that, but perhaps if he repeats it enough in his head, he might one day. Perhaps if he focuses enough on everything else, it will go away. Like the thestral.

* * *

_December 1973_

_Regulus quietly closed the door to his room, and walked towards his bed, on which he let himself fall, arms spread out, eyes on the ceiling, heels still on the floor. His room felt too big and empty at times like these. He wished it smaller, warmer, more personal._

_He would have complained that his life was agony, that he was a mistreated and miserable child, but that would have been a far cry from the truth. No, it wasn't about harshness – how could it be? Regulus had never gone hungry or cold, he'd received all the love he needed from his parents, and his brother was always up for playing together when he was bored. He was a Black and a child, no one dared touch him. So, life was a smooth river, but it was a problem away from a happy one. For all he was content, the twelve-year-old was dead_ tired _._

_Tired of all the screaming, and the fighting, and the insults, and the same devilish circle of arguments that never ended and never stopped escalating and never stopped coming back._

_They were at it again. They had been at it ever since Sirius had returned from Hogwarts with brand new ideas of blood equality and robes adorned with red and gold. Sirius had always been a tad too rambunctious for their parents' taste, and they had expressed a sigh of disappointment when they'd heard where their son had been sorted, but the war hadn't started until he'd returned home that first Christmas and they realised how truly fundamentally different they were._

_And after the first spark, the fire never died._

_Regulus didn't even care about what was being said. He doubted either side was even listening to the other anymore, so why would he bother? It was always the same. No, Sirius, Regulus thought bitterly, our parents do not have for life goal to make you miserable, stop playing the victim. Mother, no one really cares if Sirius's hair is correctly gelled down, least of all the goblins at Gringotts, there's no need to make such a fuss about it. Regardless of your opinions, must you insist on calling Sirius's best friend a blood traitor every time he mentions him, father?_

_The first few times, Regulus had tried mediating, defending both sides, tempering the heat, but he'd soon been ignored. He wasn't sure when exactly he'd noticed that these fights weren't really about arguing. They didn't care to come to an agreement. They weren't trying to convince each other, or at least, Regulus was pretty sure they'd given up on that fairly quickly. No, these were about venting out supressed emotions, about a dam that had been built at the beginning of Sirius's first year, holding back tensions, and that had been irreparably torn down that Christmas, only to never function again._

_They could have chosen to coexist peacefully. It wasn't that hard to avoid politics. Their parents had been raised to control their interactions from birth, surely they knew how to keep their small criticisms to themselves. And Sirius, he wasn't eight anymore. He was getting awfully close to an age where it wasn't acceptable to blow tantrums at the slightest bit of inconvenience._

_It follows that Sirius and his parents had chosen to fight. They wanted to fight. Perhaps they needed it, lest they suffocate under their unsaid frustrations. In the meantime, however, Regulus was quickly becoming obsolete._

_They never forgot him per se, but they'd only bring him up like he was a weapon from their arsenal of overused points against the enemy._

Look at Regulus _, his mother would say,_ you don't hear him complain!

You would never say this to me if I was Regulus, _his brother sometimes brought up._

Regulus is such a good son, _his father would weep,_ how did you turn out this way?

You don't love Regulus _, Sirius would spit out,_ you're just glad you have a mindless trophy to parade around since your other son is such a disappointment!

_Regulus, Regulus, Regulus. Yes, well Regulus was bloody tired. They couldn't even have one civil conversation without it blowing up to this. Even when he just wanted to talk about Quidditch it ended up in a jarring debate about Sirius's untucked shirt and how it brought shame to their forefathers._

_It didn't matter what Regulus said. All three would twist his words proudly to proclaim he stood on their side and, oh, wasn't he just a shiny beacon of a wizard, that is, when they listened to what he had to say at all. He was tempted at times to say something ridiculous, along the lines of 'I'm going to elope with a Hungarian centaur tomorrow night' just to see if they would react, but he never did. He already knew they wouldn't blink twice, and he didn't want it confirmed._

_So instead Regulus allowed himself to withdraw. He stopped fighting against a fight that didn't want to stop anyway. He stopped giving out his opinion, and quietly escaped to his room whenever the tension rose again._

_He let himself hope that eventually they'd tire of it, just like he had eons ago. Or maybe he just thought that if_ he _ignored_ them _for a change, then maybe there would come a time where it wouldn't hurt as much to hear them fight. He resolved to detach himself of these endless battles, to let them do whatever they wanted as long as he was kept out of it._

_He was scared at how easy he found it to desensitise himself to his own family, to shut himself out and close himself down._

_Maybe if he'd cared more then, maybe if he'd bothered to really chose a side and fight for it with passion, then things would have been different on the long run. Then again, perhaps it was excusable of a twelve-year-old to dismiss politics even when it was tearing his own family apart._

_Only, it hadn_ _'_ _t just been a twelve-year-old. It had been a thirteen-year-old, and then a fourteen-year-old, and then a fifteen-year-old, and then he_ _'_ _d been a Death Eater by default, all because he had never given it a second thought and that was where life and society had led him. He had turned a blind eye to what was happening around him once because it had been unpleasant, and then he had never stopped doing so. By the time he was eighteen, there was nowhere left to look to where horror wasn_ _'_ _t._

_That was the issue with not caring. That was what happened when one was more concerned about avoiding drama rather than resolving the issue that had sparked it. It really shouldn't have surprised him when he ended up where he had at eighteen years old, as he'd done nothing to consider an alternate path. It shouldn't have surprised him when the world he'd lived in had become unfavourable, when he'd done nothing to make it a better place by his standards._

_But back then Regulus was just twelve, so Regulus closed his eyes and plugged his palms firmly over his ears as his family verbally – and soon physically – ripped each other to shreds in the background._


	4. The Riddle : Speak of the Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two boys learn that to be dead is to be censored into someone else.

**The Little King's Road**

* * *

The Riddle, Chapter Three: Speak of the Dead

_April 1996_

It doesn't go away.

He finishes all his homework, he puts his all in his lessons with Bellatrix, but it doesn't go way.

Draco has put a name to the face; he regrets it dearly, for it never stops afterwards. Regulus Black is everywhere – in his dreams, drowning, crying, and in his wake, haunting his every glance, lapping at his ears. He starts noticing him in the background of old photographs. Weddings. Holidays. Dances. He's never the center of it, never the one smiling and posturing for the camera, but he's always there. Standing. Watching. Looking straight at Draco. Sometimes he's barely a dot in the distance, too far to have a face, too far to tell; still Draco recognizes him. Still Regulus stares at Draco.

There are very little walls in his house, Draco finds, that aren't lined with photographs.

It's never bothered him before, but now he feels under scrutiny. He can't go to the dining room without being excruciatingly aware of the twelve-year-old Regulus Black congratulating Draco's mother on her NEWTs in the frame over the cabinet that's in the corner by the door to the Kitchen. Or the two-year-old Regulus Black drooling over grandfather Cygnus in the family portrait that hangs over the humming Venus fly-trap under the stairs. All two-year-olds look the same, Draco knows this, and yet he can tell.

He can  _tell_.

It comes to a point where Draco is almost afraid to do anything. He comments on his father's peculiar cuff buttons,  _once_ , a mistake he hopes never to repeat. They were given to him by Regulus, it turns out (fancy that?), and he was feeling nostalgic after their talk the other day. Regulus had excellent tastes, Draco learns against his wishes, he always gave the most exquisite gifts. Regulus had a way of finding unexpected and unique things. Regulus was great. Regulus was handsome. Regulus was perfect. Silver poured from his every orifice.

In his mind, Draco narrows his eyes and spits out the name the very same way he spits out Potter's.

_Regulus_.

They're all wrong. Regulus had a face twisted with hysteria and a posture arched with pain. He was the type to scream and trash when he was trapped. He was angry, miserable, and bitter enough to walk into –

Draco doesn't want to be reminded of Regulus Black at every turn. Just a couple of nights ago he had to pry anything about the man from his family with a pair of tweezers and the perseverance of a particularly annoying Hufflepuff, why has that changed? It's the strangest of things. His parents certainly don't bring him up unprompted, but somehow everything Draco notices, everything he says, everything he brings up,  _prompts_.

Draco asks why the date is circled out in the calendar, his mother tells him it's Regulus's birthday and they send flowers every year to his grave.

Draco  _sneezes_  and somehow it devolves into finding out that all the House-Elves old enough to remember him are absolutely  _in love_  with Regulus Black. Disturbingly so. He doesn't remember how it came around to that, but the memory of three House-Elves simultaneously bawling and singing praises for his dead cousin once-removed will forever be etched into his mind. It's so theatrical it looks rehearsed, but he's certain it's not and it makes everything worse. He tells them to shut it and he swears they're considering going against his order.

On his last day home, he foolishly believes Bellatrix will take his mind off things. She's been good with that, teaching him Occlumency, teaching him magic interesting enough to be learnt without it being a chore.

Then she starts their final lesson with "Since we were on the subject, let's have a go at Reggie's favourite spell." And Draco wants to curl up and die.

The spell is  _Avis_. It's stupid and it's underwhelming, and it clearly did not save  _Reggie_  from the inferi.

A part of him suspects this is a conspiracy. Slytherins are vindictive like that. It must be revenge for forcing the topic. Nothing else could explain how someone he'd never heard of before now keeps intruding on him like his life is a novel and Regulus Black is an indefinite article.

Fortunately, the time to head back to Hogwarts comes fast.

* * *

Lucius meets Rodolphus and Bellatrix right after dropping Draco off at the Hogwarts Express. They're following a lead for the Dark Lord, one that he finds important enough to entrust three of his most loyal with. He can understand why rookies wouldn't do; the Research Organism of Appellation Rites is one of the most well-protected research institutes in the country. Had Bellatrix not studied under her uncle, the Dark Lord would have had to do this himself. The witch has always had a talent for breaking things

They manage to circumvent rune after rune, charm after charm. Only a handful of traps are sprung, and the worst they get is a distinctively annoying parrot that makes fun of them for not having six doctorates in Topological Arithmancy. Why that is something to be ashamed of, Lucius wonders.

It certainly did not help the four scholars that happened on their path.

Eventually they make it to the Archive. Lucius and Rodolphus back away to the corridor while Bellatrix breaks the final vault. It's there that conversation strikes.

"Of all the Death Eaters to admire," Rodolphus dubiously questions, " _Regulus Black_?"

The name has gathered enough dust and cobwebs to come out slowly and in full. It used to be Reggie for Rodolphus as well.

Lucius raises an eyebrow in challenge, "A problem, Rodolphus?"

The older wizard shrugs, "Never had any grief against the boy," he assures Lucius, "but you can't argue that he wasn't exactly… how to say, memorable."

Was Narcissa in the room, Lucius probably would have defended her cousin, just like he suspects there's a reason Rodolphus waited for his wife to be occupied elsewhere to speak up. As it happens however, the two wizards are in agreement. Regulus Black is far from an illustrious member of the Death Eaters. He could have been, maybe, but that doesn't change the fact that he died too early to achieve anything worth of note. Lucius would be surprised if the Dark Lord even remembers his face.

Perhaps he was promising, perhaps he had potential, but promises and potential mean little if they are never met. Most current Death Eater have never met Regulus Black, and the majority are probably unaware he's even been one of them, should they even know his name.

It's entirely possible that the only ripple Regulus Black has ever made in the world is in Narcissa's heart.

"He came up the other day and Draco seemed interested," Lucius explains, "I think it's to do with how young he was. You remember how it was to be fifteen."

Rodolphus chuckles. "You know, your wife is going to be  _pissed_  when she learns you and Bella are using Regulus to lure Draco in."

Lucius doesn't snap, but he wants to. Rodolphus makes it sound like he's  _manipulating_  his son and  _betraying_  his wife. He didn't plan this. He didn't ask Narcissa to bring up Regulus. He hadn't even considered Draco might be interested in the boy. He knows how to recognise an opportunity, however, and it would be parental negligence not to take this one. Luckily, Lucius has known Rodolphus for ages now, and he knows he means no strife. Rodolphus has always been particularly cynical about how the world works. He doesn't understand that Lucius just wants his family safe and whole, and that he'd rather Draco do right thing for the wrong reason than the other way around. It is so easy for teenagers to go astray, and Lucius Malfoy will not let that happen to his own son.

It's best to play along.

"There's little she can say about it," Lucius huffs, "she's using Regulus to lure him  _out_ , after all."

"Well if there's one thing good that comes to mind about Regulus Black," Rodolphus jokes, "is that he's always been convenient."

"While you lot were gossiping worse than my dead mother, I found the papers," Bellatrix tells them as she barges back out. There's something red smudged on her forehead, but neither wizard care to comment on it, "We're missing the bulk of the work, but I have the name of our next dissection project."

"Who?"

Bellatrix gives her usual boyish smile. It was beautiful, once, somewhere between mischief and freedom, but now it just looks hungry.

"Theresa Ancor. A husband, two daughters. Come on, my boys, it'll be  _fun_."

* * *

Once all their prefect duties are sorted out, Draco and Pansy find their peers' compartment. It's already tightly packed with Vince, Greg, Millicent, Theo and Blaise, but the Slytherins are always up to challenge optimization problems. It's quite simple, really. Since the compartment is meant for six people at most, it's just a matter of shoving Greg on the floor, and perhaps Vince as well for insurance, as Millicent takes quite a bit of space for herself.

Draco and Pansy slide in with no further issue.

Naturally, everyone is talking about their Easter holidays.

"Well, you know how things go in my house," Blaise sighs, "mother's thinking to remarry. Met the poor sod, almost gave him a warning out of pity. He's unfortunately a nice bloke."

" _My_  Mother's been pestering me about studying for my OWLs all Easter," Pansy complains, "apparently making Prefect still doesn't earn me the trust to manage my own academic life. Spent the whole two weeks with a private tutor because of the old hag."

"I'll have you know,  _my_  Easter was quite exciting," Draco tells them with a knowing smirk. He sees Theo and Blaise share an eyeroll, the rotten disbelievers, and continues, "A relative who's been…  _away_  for quite some time now came to visit."

What do you know, that does get their attention. It's like time has stopped as the implication sinks in.

It doesn't take being a Slytherin to catch his meaning. They all know Bellatrix Lestrange has recently escaped from Azkaban, they all know Bellatrix Lestrange is his aunt, and they all know why Bellatrix Lestrange was in Azkaban in the first place. She is without contest one of the most formidable witches of modern times. Certainly the most dangerous one.

They all came back with stories of family drama and school work adventures, but Draco has just dropped a war on them. One he has a foot in already, which his classmates are all shielded from. They suspect the Dark Lord may be back, but they cannot know for sure. What matters, however, is that they are all aware that Draco does have that knowledge.

In the minds of fifteen-year-olds, there is no contest.

"She's been… teaching me…  _things_ ," he says, careful to stay vague enough to maintain interest, "She seems to think I have potential."

"Wait, are we talking about Bell –" Greg starts, and Pansy has enough sense to hit him with her foot before he can finish. Draco gives him a glare.

_As you know_ , his mother had told him the night before,  _matters regarding the Dark Lord and your aunt's whereabouts are a delicate topic. You cannot, under any circumstances, reveal anything you know. This is serious, Draco._

_Yes, mother, I'm not a complete imbecile_ , he'd returned.

_Draco_ , his father had added,  _remember that the law is against us for now. Whatever you say, you must be careful. Imply if you must, but never confirm anything. A misspoken word may implicate our whole family._

_Yes, father,_  he'd sighed.

"I'm confused," Vince frowns.

Millicent gives him a sympathetic pat, "You're always confused, Vince."

It must be distressful to be so stupid all the time, Draco thinks.

"Soooo?" Pansy slyly prompts, "well? Tell us, Draco. What did you learn? What did she show you?"

"Yeah, Draco," Theo mockingly mimics, " _please_  elaborate."

Draco preens under the attention, "Spells, mostly, and dueling strategies. She's every bit as fearsome as I'd expected, more so, even. I only had two weeks with her, of course, but she's given me all the pointers to delve further into it on my own. I already feel twice the wizard I was last term."

Theo raises an eyebrow, "What about your OWLs?"

"OWLs?" scoffs Draco, "I couldn't care less about OWLs after everything I've seen, The real magic is outside the joke of a curriculum we have at Hogwarts, trust me. I am done with toddler spells."

"Ugh," Pansy whinges, full of envy, "I wish I had a cool relative. Mine are all crusty and nosy."

"Anything you can show us?" Blaise asks with genuine interest.

Draco has to consider, "it would be unwise to cast most of it here," he tells them.

Truth is, he's only learnt a handful of things, the main one being Occlumency, which is neither demonstrable without a Legillimens, nor very impressive. There are two basic dueling spells as well, but the law is quite clear on what happens should he be caught casting them, and he won't risk it for praise.

Pansy and Millicent let out impressed  _ooh_ s, Blaise whistles and Vince and Greg struggle to work out the underlying meaning of what was said six sentences ago. Not everyone is awed by Draco's stories, however.

"He's fibbing," Theo says, "why would  _she_  waste time on some snotty fifteen year old kid?"

"I am  _not_!" Draco defends himself, reddening. He's tempted to go for the slashing curse, but his pride is not worth the legal trouble that follows.

There is  _one_  spell, his mind provides. He still struggles with casting it sometimes. He's only had a day to learn it, so he doesn't know how much it'll conjure, how controllable it'll be. But it's legal, it won't kill anyone, and it's visual enough.

" _Avis_ ," Draco casts, and a flock of birds erupts from his wand. They are small, jovial, and together they paint a bright blue sky with fluffy clouds behind which the compartment ceiling disappears. Their wings flutter in an improvised dance over the Slytherins' heads, their chirps provide the music and their enthusiasm is infectious.

Draco can almost feel the breeze from outside.

The girls are in awe.

"That's  _beautiful_ ," Pansy coos.

Then Draco flicks his wand in one, dry, movement, and all the birds dive for the spot just next to Theo's ear.

The targeted boy yelps and braces himself as the conjured birds drill holes around where his head used to be. He curls on himself until the last bird explodes in a cloud of vanishing feathers, and waits another beat after that. Slowly, he cracks an eye open, before warily straightening himself out.

Draco raises a challenging eyebrow at him.

" _Avis_  is part of the joke of a curriculum," Theo points out in a feeble defense. He's still shaking though, so his words have little weight.

Blaise shrugs, "It's still a NEWT-level transfiguration charm, though. Don't listen to Theo – that was really impressive."

"Thank you, Blaise," Draco nods.

Conversation continues for the rest of the ride, and Theo does not bring up any doubts of his again. In fact, he leaves the compartment altogether at one point to talk to other friends of his. Or so he says. Draco suspects he's just bitter.

It's liberating being around wizards his age again. Meeting Bellatrix was thrilling, but it was intense, and perhaps he'd needed a bit of good old-fashioned fun for a change. Their antics take his mind off his mother's concerns and his father's expectations. For a moment there's no war or law or Dark Lord, and he knows it's blasphemous to think so, but it's  _nice_.

Draco returns to Hogwarts feeling like a king. He's a Prefect, part of the Inquisitional Squad, and his newfound knowledge of the Dark Arts bolsters his confidence. Pansy hangs at his arm, Vince and Greg a few steps behind, and the world revolves as it should.

He gives a few passing Gryffindors detention for loitering and blocking passage to a corridor, gets a passing praise from Headmistress Umbridge for his stellar conduct, and frightens a gaggle of Hufflepuff second years who accidentally run into him.

Daphne Greengrass gives him the stink eye upon witnessing the later, but Daphne Greengrass always gives him the stink eye, so he doesn't let it bother him.

Professor Snape hands out the schedule for their Career Advice meeting, Draco makes fun of it, and they all head to their dorm to retire for the night.

Draco flops on his bed. Everything's back to normal. He hadn't even realized he'd been stressed. It makes sense, in hindsight. His parents, his aunt, and reluctantly, professor Snape, have all been feuding over his future for the duration of the Easter holidays, and Draco realizes now he has little say in it. He relies on them to obtain the means to prove himself worthy of any path. He needs Bellatrix to learn. And Bellatrix will not go against his parents' wishes when it comes to him.

So in the meantime, all Draco can do is wait for  _their_  decision.

After all, freedom comes with power, and within Hogwarts, Draco is at the top of the food chain. He thinks of Bellatrix, of his father, of the Dark Lord, and he hopes, that one day, the same could be said outside of Hogwarts.

As his thoughts conclude, his eye catches something in the corner of his bedpost.

There are always a lot of drawings scratched into bedposts. Most are ridiculously daft – hearts with two names in name, infantile renderings of male genitalia, futile attempts at conversing with future students,  _Can you read me?_   _Write back if you're blonde._  The one Draco just noticed is nothing peculiar. It's a tally. There are tallies carved out everywhere around Hogwarts. Gambling is as old as education, it turns out. Older, even. There's a rumour that on the High Table one can find a game of tic-tac-toe carved by Helga Hufflepuff and Godric Gryffindor themselves.

No heading names the game that's recorded on Draco's bed, or how long it went on for, if it was a bet or a competition, but it's a tally, and there are names and there are little bars indicating scores. Three Slytherin fifth years played a game some years ago in this very room. Evan has five – he's the winner, or the loser, depending on what they were counting – and the other two are tied with three bars each: a Xander, and, of course,  _Regulus_.

Draco presses his face in his pillow and screams.

Vince gives him a mildly concerned look. Theo casts another sound cancelling charm on his own bed.

* * *

_March 1979_

_"Mr. Black."_

_Regulus had been expecting this. He finished packing his books and walked to professor Slughorn while the other students filed out._

_"Professor?"_

_The potion master looked over Regulus's shoulder, waiting for the door to close behind the last student. He then placed a heavy hand on his student's shoulder. "I am truly sorry to hear about your father, my boy," he told him with real sympathy, "Orion's loss is a tragedy to wizard kind. I've never had another student with such a talent for crypto-charms. The way he went about crafting barriers… He could have locked a man out of his own body."_

_There were many things to be said about Horace Slughorn, but the man did have a talent for pick pointing a wizard's best skills._

_"I appreciate the sentiment, professor," Regulus nodded politely._

_He didn't mean to be so mechanical about accepting condolences – for all he could be a social climber, Slughorn had no malice about him – but he'd been receiving an awful lot of them these past two days. Even in this tumultuous climate, a death like Orion Black's did not go unnoticed. One would think the focus would be on the mysteriously vanished or the suspiciously killed, but no such luck. The news had broken out barely the morning after Regulus had received a letter from his mother informing him of it._

_Perhaps people clung to normalcy in times like these._

_Regulus's father had after all, in a shocking twist, died a natural death._

_The Potion master seemed genuinely concerned, "How are you holding up?"_

_"Father had been sick for a while now, we knew it was coming."_

_"Very well, but should you need anything…"_

_Regulus offered a smile, "I know where to look. Thank you."_

_This satisfied the older wizard. "I will trust that. Off you pop now, Mr. Black, or Minerva will have my head."_

_He did as told._

_He did as told._ Ha _._

_The funeral was to be held a week from then. Regulus had been going over the arrangements under the table for the whole day. From the type of polish used to finish the coffin to the angle at which the cemetery gate was to be left open during the ceremony, nothing was to be chosen without his approval. It had been made clear in his mother's last letter, that while he hadn't officially inherited the title yet, this was his first act as Head of the House of Black._

It is a funeral in name only, _she had written, her script sharp and vertical as always,_ the eyes of the wizarding world will be on you. Every family with value to their name will send a representative. Remember every funeral you have attended – outdo them all. Spare no expense.

_The first family commandment: show no weakness. Not even death was made an exception._

_Emotional detachment was second nature now. At thirteen, Regulus had had no trouble speaking a word and thinking another. By the time he'd been sixteen, he had slipped into Occlumency like it was just another set of silk pajamas. He was master over his emotions, but he wasn't cold – he resented that people thought it of him. He felt deeply and he felt often. Regulus did angry, he did scared, he did sad._

_Even now._

_Even pencilling a eulogy that shared not a word with what he wished he could say about his father, Regulus felt. McGonagall's voice was reaching his ears, but the one that echoed through his mind was lower. Almost quiet, but rumbling like distant thunder. Controlled. Orion Black had never needed to raise his voice to be listened to. His imperious timber alone commanded attention and obedience. When he did bark – the world stood still for a moment._

_Regulus also remembered warmth. Orion spoke slow, enunciating, and sometimes that reminded his younger son of a giant walking on eggshells. So, so powerful, but so careful not to break anything. So gentle with his world._

_He wrote of Orion's clever quotes, but made no mention of how safe and terrified the sound of his voice had once made him feel._

_He could think of a few moments of significance._

_Moments, strokes of a scene. A heavy oak desk. The smell of old parchment wafting about. Morning light retracing the shape of windows on the forest green carpet. Floating dust sparkling in between. Orion Black, a silver quill in hand, pouring over paperwork. Regulus, the size of three apples, curious as a kitten, trying to look over the desk on pointed toes. There had been a fleeting smile, something of fondness and amusement, a conjured stool, a square of parchment and his own tiny quill pushed his way. The doodles born from it were no carefully worded letters to banks and notaries, but later that night, Orion nonetheless informed his wife that Regulus made a very diligent secretary._

_Another, later. A dinner party. Regulus was still too young to enjoy it, but he'd been old enough to know to pretend. Whichever bitter, rotten soul had arranged the seating plan had placed Regulus right between Aunt Druella and Aunt Lucretia, and the eleven-year-old was mentally compiling a list of who he could have possibly offended so horrendously to be subject to that. In a frantic search for an escape as the two witches asked him his opinion on the lovely young Selwyn girl, Regulus caught his father's eyes. Orion Black was himself deep in conversation with Abraxas Malfoy, and conversation with Abraxas Malfoy was either business or politics, which is why Regulus knew perfectly well that the laugh his father was holding back was at his expense. The traitor._

_Later that evening, Orion had pulled Regulus away from his aunts and their friends and told him that if he could face the women of his family at eleven, he'd be ready to take on Merlin and Morgana by the time he'd come of age. Regulus had responded that if it came to fighting Merlin and Morgana, he'd just set his aunts on them and pray for their souls. That was perhaps the one time he'd seen his father laugh from the bottom of his belly to the crinkles of his eyes._

_This one, recent. Regulus was stumbling home, murder in his stomach, screams in his throat and lead in his limbs. He didn't need their magic mirror by the entrance to tell him he looked sickly. He felt like vomit. He was a litter of hysterical baby mandrakes held in a pot of wet chiffon liable to rip at the slightest poke._

_Orion was in the living room, entertaining a bottle of firewhiskey. The bottle was halfway empty, thought there was no telling if he'd just opened it. Still silent, even then, even with the house of his fathers rotting from the leaves, ever so silent, he gave his son's face one look, and poured him a glass. It was as close to an apology as he would ever give to anyone. Regulus didn't even know what he was apologising for. For not paying attention, perhaps. For allowing Regulus to be dragged in so deep, so young. For putting so much pressure on him not to follow in his brother's footsteps, that he'd readily watched him take a path thrice as damning. For never saying anything, never asking, never caring. For demanding, and demanding and never giving._

_It didn't matter. It wasn't enough, and it was too late. Orion probably didn't even know when, why or how his son had sold his soul. Regulus had seen through the act now, he wasn't so little anymore. Stern, severe, rigid Orion Black was just as cowardly as the rest of them. He didn't want to know, should some blame fall on him._

_The seventeen-year-old took the drink, not the apology._

_Regulus would not share a single one of these memories._

_He hated that, among all the fantastical aquarelles his thoughts and memories painted, the one at the forefront of his mind was a blunt card with '_ this is my chance' _printed on it in block letters._

_This whole dreadful affair was a bloody opportunity, and he loathed that more than he did turning it into a socialite zoo. He'd been given time off school – more so than any of his schoolmates due to the title and responsibilities he was inheriting as well – and the Dark Lord did not care enough to look at his calendar and realise there was a hole there. Save for the funeral itself, no one expected to see him for a whole two weeks._

_It was perfect, ideal. The planets had aligned, the sun was shining, the crops were growing – his father's funeral was going to be his window to act._

_Regulus had a cave to visit, and he could not risk anyone looking for him before all was over._

_This was the priority._

_Until then, he had to organize this funeral like he wasn't planning on dying immediately after. Raising even the smallest of eyebrows was not affordable. There were dragons of grief, fear and trepidation warring in his heart, setting his whole future ablaze, but the smoke was not to make it outside. He was going to choose chrysanthemums over tulips, port over wine, Marengo grey for the napkins, and pay no mind to his life splinching itself apart._

_So Regulus wrote the eulogy everyone expected to hear. Beautiful, glorifying, about as personal as tax returns. His father would understand, he hoped. Or perhaps he'd get to defend his choices in person soon enough._

_He did as told._

_Regulus had made an art form out of coinciding interests with obligations._

_McGonagall finished the class. She didn't say a word about the fact that Regulus had spent to whole class pouring over something that was decidedly not Transfiguration. The young man was not fool enough to think she hadn't noticed. Like Slughorn, she gave him a look that conveyed sympathy and understanding._

_Not for the first time, Regulus thought to himself,_ they have no idea _._

_He had a very complex relation to that sentence. Half of the time it was the bane of his existence – people constantly misunderstood him. The saw him nod, and they made assumption upon assumption upon assumption. Someone someday had painted a caricature of the mindless pure-blood scion, and somehow the whole of magic Britain had baptized it Regulus at once. He didn't deny being a dutiful son, he didn't deny agreeing with pure-blood ideologies, he would never call himself a rebel, but by Merlin, no one was_ that _flat._

_Just because he saw no benefice in contradicting others publicly did not mean he was willing to roll over at every command._

_Regulus couldn't do anything without someone thinking the world was ending. He remembered asking to try out for the Quidditch team in third year and having his whole House uncomfortably attempt to convince him that it wasn't his kind of thing. Even now he was relatively certain he'd only made Slytherin Seeker out of pure spite._

_Still, live long enough with a weird growth on your back and you start finding uses for it._

_From a young age, Regulus had started taking the assumptions made of him and weaving them into chainmail. He'd learnt that when objects functioned as they should, as they were expected to, no one paid them any mind. He'd learnt that with invisibility came freedom, and he thrived in it._

_This was how Regulus, at eighteen years old, found the audacity to organize a facsimile of a funeral for his own father and mount a suicide mission against the greatest Dark wizard in the time between homework and dinner. Whether he failed or succeeded, he was abrasively certain of one thing:_ they would never know _._

_That was how he was known and how he would be remembered. Wrongly._

_The bitter facts of death are, once someone turns into nothing but a tombstone, old letters, and oxidising photographs – they do become_ that _flat. The small flaws that built their character, the shameful moments that coloured their stories, their annoying tics and bad tastes – all are forgotten to glorify brighter traits, sweeten grief, and make everyone feel better about the fact that no one truly knows anyone else. It makes for a kinder remembrance, but is it remembrance at all to forget half of everyone?_

_No one likes speaking ill of the dead, perhaps that's why no one speaks true either._

_Regulus wondered, briefly, what people would say about him. Perhaps they'd keep the eulogy he'd just written and re-use it, if there wasn't already a stock of those somewhere, with blanks where the deceased name was to be filled._


	5. The Riddle : Career Advice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two boys have a non-conversation with their Heads of House.

**The Little King's road**

* * *

The Riddle, Chapter Four: Career Advice

_April 1996_

If it wasn't for the warm, steady hand on her back, Narcissa would not have taken another step forward.

The entrance to the meeting place is a dilapidated wooden door eaten by mold and skewed by rusted hinges. Unassuming, yes, if only because the rest of this decaying wizarding village is just as so. The few people she's seen since Apparating here were so miserable they did not raise their eyes from the ground long enough to see her in return.

Lucius taps his wand on the door in a rhythm. It matches the tempo for The Niffler's Hunt, a lullaby older than the Wizengamot.

Someone calls from within, "He who seeks knowledge seeks the Light."

"He who has knowledge fears not the Dark," Lucius answers.

A password. It's almost like they're back in school, Narcissa thinks.

The door creaks open to reveal a dark hole, an entrance to a rocky tunnel that seems to snake underground. As soon as they make it past the threshold, the door closes behind them.

Since her husband doesn't seem inclined to provide light, Narcissa does so. "Lumos."

A silver mask suddenly appears before her, and she nearly latches onto her husband's robes in fear. It tilts,  _leers_ , eyes behind the slits narrowing further. It makes her angry, this childish need to startle, to look down on her. The man has at least three heads on Narcissa, and the way he curls to face her makes her think his black robes will swallow her whole.

"What's  _she_  doing here?" He spits.

A hand comes between the troll and Narcissa.

"You will not address my wife like that, Rowle," Lucius sneers. Somehow, in the brief interlude they had in complete darkness, he's found time to adorn his own mask and robes.

The Death Eater, Rowle, turns to him. "This isn't some tea luncheon, Malfoy, she has no place here. She's not one of  _us_."

"There are other ways to fight for the Cause than with a Killing Curse, but I don't expect a brute like you to understand."

Rowle barks a laugh, "What is she to do? Gossip the Order into submission? Plan the Dark Lord's birthday party?"

Another masked Death Eater comes up from behind Rowle, and gives him a slight shove. The larger Death Eater shoves back, but says nothing.

"Mind your manners, Rowle," the newcomer speaks, and Narcissa recognizes Selwyn's voice. It reassures her that there are some familiar faces in this crowd. They haven't spoken in years, but she knows him to be reasonable. "It's good to see you, Madame Malfoy. I assume there is a reason for your presence?"

"Likewise," Narcissa reciprocates with a smile, "I have come across some information our Dark Lord may be interested in, and Lucius thought it best I bring it to him myself."

It is a show of allegiance, she knows, and Lucius has not hidden it from her. For the safety of their family, it is tantamount that the Dark Lord knows they are  _all_  loyal to him. Lucius has had to do innumerable tasks for the Dark Lord to make up with his mistake handling the diary. Narcissa, with her reluctance to participate in any Death Eater activity, with her blood-traitor sister, and with fourteen years since she's last set eyes on the Dark Lord, can easily be mistaken for a potential neutral party, for someone who'd run to the other side if the cauldron starts boiling on this one.

The Dark Lord needs her to reaffirm her allegiances explicitly, so she will. She has nothing to hide.

Selwyn nods. "Follow me, then."

They go down the twisty underground path in silence. The rock floor is uneven and narrow, and Lucius has to cradle Narcissa's elbows so she doesn't slip or trip. She doesn't know why they insist on meeting in dark, damp, and obscure places like these. A proper lounge can be just as secretive with the right charms, without smelling like rot, and without this eerie echo bouncing off walls like cries of the dead.

 _Men_.

The path leads to a cavity, which, at the very least, is furnished. There is a large oak table in the middle, a tree trunk really. Around it, Death Eaters have taken their seats, but their Lord has not arrived yet. As Lucius leads Narcissa to sit next to her sister, she takes in the faces she can see – they don't all wear masks. It was already the case, the first time around, but she's never seen them all in one place before.

The largest group she'd seen before was standing trial and getting shipped to Azkaban, some fourteen years ago. There were seven then. Today there are about twenty-five of them in attendance. Some faces are nostalgic, though hacked and drained by Azkaban or life in hiding. Others, she's just seen the other day, shopping in Knockturn Alley, drinking tea right across her.

Her presence raises a few eyebrows. Only two or three are openly distrustful – at least they are honest. They don't respect her, because she won't bloody her hands. The ones she knows socially greet her appropriately, though discreetly. She gets a few nods and 'Madame Malfoy's from masks and hoods as well, and though she can't always reply with their names, she returns courtesy.

By the time she's seated, she has figured out who three fourth of the room are. It comforts her that she's among friends. She knew they were Death Eaters for most, even if she had no idea they had returned, but a few names surprise her, and she's found wondering if they were already Marked during the First War as well.

Scary, to think of how little one knows the people in one's life. She's done her best not to pry in Death Eater business, it's true, but it irks her how intertwined Death Eater business is with her personal life. She doesn't like open fires so close to her living room.

The Dark Lord walks in and what little chatter there was dies. They all rise.

He's just as regal as she remembers. Straight posture, confident stride, eyes red with brimming magic. His mere presence has all twenty-five Death Eaters completely schooled, and Narcissa has seen some of these men rowdy and crude under even the most authoritarian eyes. Narcissa herself, a Black, a Malfoy, a  _mother_ , finds she is waiting for orders.

He takes the head of the table. There isn't one, strictly speaking, as the table is clumsily circular, but once he's claimed a seat, it unspokenly becomes the head.

"You've all made it. Good," the Dark Lord starts. "Please, we are among comrades. S _it_."

They all do, and the Dark Lord follows.

"Now," He says, "Rodolphus?"

The wizard in question nods, "The curse you've had us look into was crafted by Theresa Ancor, my lord," he tells him, "Unfortunately her research was not at the ROAR. She and her husband have gone into hiding, and considering her area of research, there's very little we can do to find them."

The Dark Lord looks displeased. "I hope for your sake that you are not just wasting my time. Is there more?"

"Yes," Rodolphus confirms, "we have confirmation their daughters have returned to Hogwarts. As they still have the Trace, they may be of use tracking down the parents. We can snatch them after the end of term, on their way back."

For a few painful minutes, the Dark Lord merely taps his fingers on the tabletop and stares at his servant. Narcissa can feel her brother-in-law grow tenser, and Rodolphus is not an easy man to intimidate.

"You are lucky, Rodolphus," he finally says, "Lucky that this is not urgent. I expect you will make all the necessary arrangements?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"See to it. Alecto, your mission?"

And it goes on for a good hour. The Dark Lord, inquiring about how all his plans are going, his Death Eaters, acting very much like they don't outside of his gaze. Narcissa has never known Goyle not to make a single inappropriate joke in the span of a conversation, yet there she sits listening to his progress on DMLE bribes like he's a Ministry reception worker reciting filing policies. It is mesmerizing to see how well the Dark Lord has tamed his followers.

Narcissa would know, as a mother, that turning the most unruly of children into an efficient and productive unit is no easy feat. Generations of Minister of Magic have tried reigning in the most presumptuous of purebloods without any success. Good Morgana, the purebloods between themselves have done nothing but bicker for centuries.

Nevertheless, with a single word, a single sweep of the hand, the Dark Lord has them all working together for once, for the betterment of the world. He brings order to the chaos. He gives purpose to the restless.

And if that isn't inspiring, what is?

Finally, he addresses Narcissa directly.

"Madame Malfoy," he smiles, "lovely of you to joins us."

They both rise.

The Dark Lord takes her hand, gently, but his is cold and bony. The gesture appears chivalrous, yet Narcissa can't tell if it's mocking or genuine. She feels like a child in his presence. A few smirks from maskless Death Eaters tell her what  _they_  think.

"My Lord," Narcissa bows.

"Your husband tells me you have news."

She nods, and he lets go of her so they can sit.

"I have managed to get a glimpse inside the Headquarters of the Order of the phoenix, my Lord," she says, and now the looks thrown her way aren't so mocking anymore, "it is, as you had guessed, hiding in the Black ancestral home. That I cannot recall the address means it's under Fidellus Charm."

The Dark Lord inches forward, interested, "And what have you seen?"

"Heard would be more appropriate," Narcissa admits, "the Black House-Elf has retained some loyalty to me. It seems to think that Harry Potter might have a weakness in Sirius Black. That they have… bonded."

All this talk of Regulus had been good for one thing, at least. Narcissa would never have spared old Kreacher a thought if the House-Elf wasn't hanging in the background of every memory she had of her cousin.

"Ah," the Dark Lord chuckles, " _love_."

"We may be able to take advantage of Sirius Black's temperament," she explains, "he is locked in his childhood home, one that he's always hated, and if the Elf is to be believed, it is making him erratic, rash, and sour, and the members of the Order are aware of it. Knowing him, it is only a matter of time before he does something foolish."

Narcissa feels a hand on hers. Lucius removes his mask and speaks up, "I was thinking to use this for the job you've assigned to me. Sirius Black may be the perfect bait to lure Harry Potter in, and the Elf hates him enough that it will help."

"Yes," the Dark Lord agrees smugly, pleased, " _yes._  And I do so enjoy the idea of using this love Dumbledore sings worship of against him.  _Good_ , Lucius. I will think on it further, but it shows promise."

"Thank you, my Lord," Lucius smiles.

"And If it is to bring such precious information again," the Dark Lord tells Narcissa, "you are welcome to sit at our table again, Madame Malfoy. My followers could certainly learn a thing or two from you."

Narcissa can't help smirking at Rowle as she notices him shrink to a grouch. So the Dark Lord had noticed her cold welcome. It is reassuring to see he still pays attention to his followers.

"You are too kind, my Lord," she bows. "Though I cannot serve you in battle, I am no less yours."

"Your loyalty does you justice. You chose to focus on building a family," he tells her, "it is no lesser duty. Now more than ever we must preserve our blood, and the Malfoy family has always served me well. I should hope your line continues."

"You honour us," Narcissa returns.

"I wonder," the Dark Lord muses, conversational in tone, "how  _is_  your son? Draco, I believe?"

 _Stay away from him!_  A jolt of fear suddenly screams within Narcissa. It's like a ghost's hand has traversed through her right at the root of her spine.

But Lucius tightens his grip around her hand and speaks with all the airs of a parent on the subject of their little joy, "We couldn't be prouder of Draco for the man he's growing into. He has excellent grades at Hogwarts, he's a Prefect – we know he'll make Head Boy – and he got on the House team in his second year. He will be at least as great a wizard as his parents. Greater, we hope."

Anywhere else, any other time, Narcissa would beam at those words. Today they prickle the back of her neck.

"If I may," Bella chooses this moment to add her grain of salt, and Narcissa wishes her every voice-eating curse in existence for it, "he is still young, but he is ambitious, and he desires to prove himself. I've been personally overseeing the start of his training, my Lord, and he shows a lot of promise. As expected, the Dark Arts take to him. He's a very quick learner, my nephew."

"Mmh," the Dark Lord hums thoughtfully, "I am eager to meet him one day, if he is anything like his parents," and Bella looks thrilled, Lucius, too, is smiling, and Narcissa wants to scream. "I trust your teachings, Bellatrix, and I trust your blood, Lucius. I have high hopes for young Draco."

The smile Lucius gives Narcissa is genuine, encouraging, and hopeful. It glows with praise. He can be so innocent and pure sometimes, it's almost silly, it's why Narcissa loves him. She tries to give him a fond one in return, but It is weak and flimsy. It is a lie, and only Lucius is fool enough to believe it.

Lucius is proud of his son. He wants everyone to see what a brilliant boy Draco is. Narcissa knows, and she shares the feeling, but the difference is, she doesn't want Draco under the spotlight if it puts him in danger as well. While Lucius always did like putting his most precious things on display, trusting the world will see their value as he has, Narcissa keeps hers in a thrice locked box under her pillow, close to heart, because the world is nothing but a cold, treacherous hole.

It's the sort of thing you learn, growing up a Black.

Except it is getting harder, keeping Draco in her box. She can't do it forever, she knows, and it's killing her. Every day he comes closer to his namesake, and everyone knows dragons must stretch their wings. It would be cruel, to chain him up; Narcissa would only get burnt in the attempt.

But Narcissa is ready to have her limbs and heart eaten out if it keeps him safe. Let her burn. Let her skin get clawed raw, her bones crushed and her remains charred. There is no dragon she won't face to give her son a future, not even Draco himself.

(The little voice in her head tells her that it is not so simple a matter as fighting a dragon. Narcissa can fight ten dragons, twenty, an army of them if it hits her fancy, and it will not make a ripple. A cold treatment, a slapping hex, a few lectures won't change his mind. She is just one witch. All she can do is worry, about Draco's future, about what fate has in store for him.)

* * *

"What is that blasted  _noise_?" Blaise demands, voice half muffled by his pillow.

Greg groggily sits up, unsuccessfully blinking away sleep. "Draco's doing something weird again," he says.

"Make him stop."

"Don't be ridiculous, Blaise," Draco huffs, "this is of utmost importance."

Blaise glares at him. "How is carving your bedpost at six in the morning a priority?"

Draco is indeed kneeling in his own bed, working on one of the four pillars that hold up the privacy curtains. The wood buzzes as he charms layers off it. Blaise considers getting held back a year to switch dorm-mates.

"I am not carving my bedpost," Draco corrects him, angling his wand to get a better result, "I am sanding it. Hogwarts has tolerated vandalism for too long now, and it's time someone takes a stand. We shouldn't have to wake up every morning to phallic doodles. It's a disgrace."

"S'too  _early_  for housekeeping revolutions," Blaise mutters.

Nott walks back into their room. "Might I remind you, Malfoy, that  _you're_  the one who drew half the 'phallic doodles' in this school when we were in second year?" He's already fully dressed, but his Career Advice meeting is first one that morning, and he wants to get an early breakfast in.

"Actually, that was Vince," Greg inputs. He's given up on sleep and stretches. His two left feet scramble to find his slippers.

"And who dared Vince to do it?"

Draco gestures at his work, and at the wood shavings around his bed, "Well I'm making a restorative effort now, aren't I?"

Nott rolls his eyes. "A real saint," he deadpans, and exits.

Draco goes back to sanding, ignoring Blaise's groans. He wants to make sure not a single trace of the tally board remains when he goes to sleep tonight. Regulus Black's screams had echoed in his dreams again last night, and he just  _knows_  it's somewhat related to his name following Draco around like a bad omen. If he can just erase it…

There's no avoiding it any longer; it's a problem. Whatever this whole mess is about, it's not coincidence and bad luck. He had foolishly assumed being away from home, where everyone had the dead wizard on the back of their throat, would spare him. It should have been obvious it wouldn't work; he'd had the first dream right here, after all, in the Slytherin dungeons, under the Black Lake.

On April the fifth. The last day of term.

And, coincidentally ( _it's not – Draco knows it's anything but –_  ), also the day Regulus had died.

That's the second reason he should have known Hogwarts would somehow only make things worse. The dream he'd had then was the only one that had not felt like a dream. It had been lucid, nothing like the Dadaistic shards and flashes that have interwoven themselves with Draco's usual dreams since.

Thinking it through, and actually  _thinking_  instead of feeling, there are many possibilities. For one, his subconscious. Draco might have just been seeing traces of Regulus Black's existence all throughout his life, and is only putting things together now. (This doesn't explain the dream, he reasons, the  _thestrals._ ) The more frightening option – injective Legillimency. Someone could have pushed the dream in his head, pushed him to stumble upon Regulus Black over and over again. Someone who must have witnessed his death. But  _why_? (And how is it getting worse  _after_  learning Occlumency?) Or, perhaps, more romantically, reincarnation. Regulus had died just a little more than a year before Draco was born, and they do share blood. (Yet the dates don't match– it's incoherent.)

Another explanation that comes to mind, though not one that Draco wants to admit to ( _thinking_ , not feeling, he forces himself to remember), is that he is one of the very people he, and the great majority of wizarding society, like to call talentless attention-seeking scams.

 _Ground yourself,_  Bellatrix had said,  _enumerate the facts and let go of your emotions._  It's the basis of Occlumency, compartmentalising emotions, but it's also a great way to clear one's mind and reason.

Of all the things he can consider, one seems more likely than the others.

Clearly, he's being haunted by the ghost of Regulus Black.

He gives the bedpost one last passage of the Sanding Charm, and there's not a shadow left of the three Slytherin boys and their nameless game.

Draco and Greg get to the Slytherin table just as Nott leaves it. The latter looks a bit nervous, and Draco wants to laugh. It's just a meeting with Snape, there's nothing to be worried about. No one's ever heard of a student getting in trouble because of Career Advice. But Nott looks like he's about to fight the Hydra; leave it to him to make a bigger deal out of things than he should.

Greg piles up food on his place as soon as he sits. Draco spots Montague a few seats away and decides to get Quidditch out of the way before breakfast. He walks to the older Slytherin to discuss the term's practice schedule.

"Early mornings, and consecutive as well – Wednesdays and Thursdays," Montague tells him apologetically, "The Hufflepuff match is scheduled for Saturday of week two. We won't get much practice before then, but Hufflepuff's team changed half of its members after Diggory's death, so most of them are rookies. Hopefully it should be an easy trash."

Draco gets a run down of the opposing team. He's watched their previous matches, of course, but there's been yet another player switch over the holidays. The Hufflepuff team is an honest mess, fitting for the leftover House.

By the time he gets back to Greg and relays all the information, the boy is on his second plate.

If not his brain, what  _does_  all this food fuels, Draco wonders?

"Hey," Pansy greets, sliding into Theo's vacated seat, "came across Blaise in the Common Room. Says you've gone bonkers, among other, non-repeatable adjectives."

"Blaise is a ghoul in the morning," Draco shrugs, "you know that."

"Draco's always been bonkers," Greg says and suddenly Greg is disinvited from getting whatever sweets his mother sends next.

"I beg your pardon, Goyle?"

The lug of a wizard raises his hands in defense, "I'm just saying, you have a tendency of getting obsessed with your pet projects, like when you spent a whole week-end writing 'Weasley is our King', or making 'Potter stinks' badges, or sewing Dementor costumes…"

"Ooh," Pansy is interested, "does that mean you're hatching a new dastardly plot, Draco Malfoy? I want in. The girl dormitory is awfully  _boring_  these days."

"There is  _no_  dastardly plot and I do  _not_  get obsessed!"

"Draco spent the morning sanding his bed," Greg tattles.

Pansy blinks, puzzled, "But  _why_? And where's Vince?"

"Still sleeping," Draco and Greg answer at the same time. Greg then rather unnecessarily adds, "Miraculously, considering the ruckus this morning."

Owls swoop in and Draco catches his letters mid-air. He doesn't need to, but it's a habit he's formed in first year.

There are two of them. He recognizes the first one by the calligraphy and the wax seal – one of his father's. It contains everything his mother's letters usually do – A reminder to do well this term, a good luck wish with OWL revisions, an offer of emotional or material support should he need it at any point in time – but it is signed Lucius Abraxas and not Narcissa. Draco surmises he is still not on speaking terms with his mother, which makes sense, as he still waiting on her apology for the slapping hex.

Very well, then.

The second letter is neither signed nor sealed with any family's shield. It is brief.

_Draco –_

_I recommend The Quick Draw by Emil Gunvald if it's still in the Hogwarts library. I expect to see progress in our next lesson._

It didn't occur to Draco that Bellatrix would also be writing letters to him now.

Her handwriting is not elegant and flowery like his mother's. Every letter looks like a slash of a wand, a wound to the paper. But it's straight to the point. There's nothing to read between the lines, no convoluted sentence to parse, no empty flattery. It feels like Draco's life has taken a turn into professional efficiency.

"Draco? Should I go tell Blaise he's right?" Pansy asks, concerned. "He'll be so happy."

"I'm alright," Draco refutes, "I just – I think my… my  _mentor_  just gave me homework."

Pansy's eyes widen, and to his credit, Greg is only a few seconds behind.

"You mean this letter is from…?"

Draco nods. "It's just some reading. I'll go pick it up on my way back from meeting Snape."

Pansy looks at her watch, "You should probably head now, Nott will be finished."

"Yeah," Draco agrees, "See you, Pans, Greg."

It turns out, Nott wasn't finished. Not nearly. Draco leans against the wall in front of professor Snape's office for some fifteen minutes. By the sixteenth minute, he slides down. If he had known, he would have opted to stop by the library before the meeting, then at least he could have gotten started on Bellatrix's book, instead of kicking the ground as he was doing now.

Without a book, and without a target to bully, Draco finds himself very bored very quickly. He could use the opportunity to ponder further on the question of a certain Black that seems to haunt him, he realises. He certainly could do with a bit of progress on that end.

Naturally, he chooses to press his ear to the door instead. He can't hear anything, not really. There's some buzzing, but it's all muffled. It must be important though, if it's taking so long.

Everyone and their mothers know fifth year Career Advice is a joke. It's meant to help students choose their NEWT subjects, but by this point everyone knows what they're good at. Besides, for the grand majority of the students, who don't have Draco's brains, they don't really get much of a choice when it comes to which NEWTs they  _can_  take. Not to mention, nothing decided during the meeting is binding. In fact, it's a lot more usual for students to try classes at the beginning of Sixth and switch during the first weeks of term.

Well, Draco thinks, Theodore Nott always has been a bit too concerned with school matters.

"Eavesdropping, are we?"

Draco jumps in his own skin. He swivels around, startled, and sees professor Snape towering over him. For a moment, he's befuddled.

"Aren't you supposed to be in  _there_?" Draco asks, pointing at the professor's office. "With Nott?"

"No," Snape replies, and he doesn't elaborate. He yanks Draco off the door by the collar.

The door swings open, and Nott blinks as he finds himself face to face with Draco. Uncharacteristically, he makes no comment about it. Instead, his eyes slide to Snape and he says, "Thank you, professor."

Then he scampers away, looking deep in thought.

Exiting behind Nott is professor Flitwick, and Draco is all the more confused. The two professors share a cordial nod before Flitwick disappears into the corridor as well.

"Is Nott switching Houses or something?" Draco asks.

"No," Snape answers.

"Why was he meeting  _Flitwick_  in  _your_  office then?"

"That," Snape drawls, "is absolutely none of your business. Get in, Mr. Malfoy."

* * *

Severus takes a seat, Draco doesn't, and already the Potions Mater wishes he had cyanide at the ready.

"We both know this is a colossal waste of both our times," Draco reasons, "Can't we just skip it and say we didn't?"

"No," Severus shoots down, "A seat, Mr. Malfoy."

"But we already know what I'm going to do!" Draco groans, still not taking the seat, because Merlin forbids he be anything but contradictory.

Severus raises an eyebrow, "Do we?"

The boy narrows his eyes at him, "Did Mother put you up to this?"

"No, Headmaster Dumbledore did," Severus corrects him, "as he does with all the Heads of House, and all the fifth and seventh year students. Are you not a Fifth year student, Mr. Malfoy? Have you been held back without my knowing? I thought so. The chair, take it."

With an eyeroll, Draco finally plops down on the chair. Immediately his legs cross, and he lounges back.

"All the more reason to skip it, in my opinion," Draco huffs, arms over his chest, "Father says Dumbledore's school policies are only a means for him to push his muggle-loving agenda further by meddling in every student's life."

"Headmaster Dumbledore is not privy to what is said within this meeting," Severus tells his charge, "nor does he get any say in what advice I give." Before Draco can parrot any more of Lucius's kind opinions of Albus, Severus tackles the heart of the subject, "Have you chosen your NEWTs for next year?"

He's not surprised when Draco jumps on the opportunity to talk about himself, "Well, Potions naturally. All the other core subjects: Transfiguration, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Charms, I suppose. I'd like to continue Arithmancy as well, and Astronomy."

Severus nods, "Your grades are acceptable for these," he grants with a glance at Draco's file. He's only ever had one 'A' in his whole academic career. The rest has all been equal parts 'E's and 'O's.

"Obviously."

"And what are you planning on doing after Hogwarts?" Severus has to ask, though he knows very well what answer is about to tumble out of the fifth year's mouth.

It does. "Follow in Father's footsteps. Take on some of his duties managing Malfoy businesses and estates, go into politics, and support… appropriate causes."

"If you wish to pursue politics, you might want to take History of Magic."  _Or Muggle Studies_ , Severus thinks but he knows he can't say it. Not for the first time, he wonders if Albus truly did make the right choice in making Severus Head of House.

People like him, who walk thin lines between opposing sides, cannot afford to be honest. But those children, only fifteen, about to step into a war, are going to need someone who is. More than ever they have to be careful, and Severus cannot tell them what to watch out for without risking blowing his cover.

Draco scowls, "With  _Binns_? No, I'll read up what I need on the subject myself, thank you. Are we done here?"

With the chances of convincing Draco to rethink his whole system of belief in the next five minutes minimal, Severus shoos him with his hand.

He waits until he hears the door close to give a tired sigh. For once, Draco is not his priority. He didn't even want to become a professor to start with, and now his life is riddled with his students' problems. With a flick of his wand, he sends Draco's file back into the pile of fifth year Slytherins, and retrieve Theodore Nott's to slip through again.

 _Fifteen_ , he thinks.

_Too young to be this wise._

Nothing exceptional, he notes, but generally above average. A resourceful boy, clearly, if he's read the Hogwarts student handbook so carefully he pulled out a footnote Severus hadn't thought existed. Most of the brats don't even know there  _is_  a handbook.

He should be hurt perhaps, by what that means of what students think of him. Yet he has cared little for his reputation among the Hogwarts populace in years, and he isn't going to start now. He doesn't want the students to love or trust him. He just needs the Dark Lord to have faith he is a Death Eater first, and that will always be his main priority. It is only within that frame that Severus is willing to step to help his students, not one stride further.

There are sacrifices in war.

Sometimes it's advice.

Still, even within the rules, what a  _gamble_  Theodore Nott took today. He must know, surely, how it  _looks_. Severus honestly hopes it pays off, if only because it is a dangerous time to be a Slytherin, and Nott might just have the audacity to survive his sorting.

Someone knocks at his door.

Reluctantly, Severus lets the next chronic pain –  _student_ , Severus lets the next student in. He braces himself for another over ambitious child who wishes to be Minister, or a misinformed muggleborn who still thinks Astronaut is in the cards after leaving muggle schooling, or another Death Eater adjacent mess.

"I'm considering doing a Transfiguration Mastery and pursuing academia," Miss Greengrass says, "I've looked into a few possible apprenticeships for the summer, but I hoped maybe you had some recommendations?"

Thank Merlin for Daphne Greengrass and her normal aspirations. Severus makes a note to inflate her next grade a little. Or perhaps not lower it as much as he does with everyone else's.

* * *

_September 1978_

_Regulus looked at the slip of paper in his hands and held back a laugh. It was a rare thing, these days, for him to laugh, but this one would have been something maudlin, and he was tired of Gallows' humour._

Regulus Black _, the slip was addressed. The title read_ Career Advice _, and the content was brief:_

Date and time: September the third, 17:55.  
Location: Potions Master's Office.

_Career Advice? For what career? For what future?_

_It was just the wrong thing at the wrong time. He felt like a prisoner to be executed the next day, suddenly being asked what he wanted for Christmas. The sheer ridiculousness of it all – hysterical. Regulus was trying to figure how he would survive into the next week, and Slughorn wanted to talk with him about his plans after his NEWTs? Him, Regulus Black, eighteen years old now, sitting in an exam hall, filling question after question – he couldn't imagine it. He couldn't conceive the idea of a day after tomorrow anymore._

_The Dark Lord was displeased with him._

_Regulus couldn't be the wizard the Dark Lord expected any of his followers to be, and it was only a matter of time before he realized it wasn't because of his age or sheltered upbringing. It was him. It was Regulus the problem. He didn't have the stomach to – He just couldn't –_

_Not anymore. Not with so much doubt in his heart. Not with what he knew._

_Even with blind certainty Regulus had struggled to reach the point where he was unaffected by his tasks (but he had – even if for just a few weeks, he_ had _) and now that he didn't have that anymore…_

 _His peers didn't respect him either, he knew, because he was young, and because he was squeamish. The first time he'd witnessed a murder, Regulus had thrown up immediately, in front three older Death Eaters. He'd been met with laughter and a condescending "_ You'll get the hang of it yet, kid _" from Evan's father. Evan himself had teased him mercilessly the following weeks._

_Back then, it had been humiliating. A shortcoming to overcome. Now that they were all losing patience with him, humiliation was his least concern._

_The pressure from his peers to get in step was suffocating him and the doubts pushing him to step out threatening to make him implode. He could ignore them no more than a knife to the heart. Those thoughts were poison to his mind, and there was no antidote to_ knowing _other than a full Obliviation or a Kiss. (He had considered them, briefly, for a handful of days.) He could pretend and pretend and go on as if nothing, but the next time the Dark Lord would ask him to raise his wand... he knew he would wait that one second too long. It only took a second, after all._

_Alternatively, he could run. Hide. Take a Portkey to Hong Kong. Transfigure his face._

_Get caught. Killed._

_Either way, at the end of every branch and every split leaf, he was dead._

_With some luck, he could pick his killer, he supposed. Find someone who would be kind._

_Evan wouldn't torture him before, he knew. It would be quick and quiet and merciful. He was dignified that way. Xander, he wasn't so sure. He'd want a fight if he was to be betrayed. He'd want answers. He'd listen._

_If he could choose – he'd spare them both the task. Because it was no question they'd chose the Dark Lord over him. (Truth is, he didn't know, he didn't want to know, he was too much of a coward to find out.) Because if they did not, then he'd just be dragging them into this same spiraling madness for nothing. He couldn't be responsible for that. He had to keep them as far away from this whole clusterfuck as he could, at least._

_They'd seen him at his best and at his worst already, there was no reason to add his corpse to it. It was bitter enough that theirs were the first wands Regulus imagined seeing last, it made everything ten times worst. Not only was he going to die, his friends were most likely to have to do it. It was just the sadistic kind of game the Dark Lord would enjoy playing to test his followers' loyalty. Letting schoolboys who'd shared everything from that first pack of jelly beans to that last bottle of firewhiskey grow up to execute one another… needlessly cruel and sick. Like everything else about him._

_Sick sick sick and terrifying. They'd hate him for it. They'd despise him. For betraying them, for making them chose, for making them doubt, they'd think so little of him._

_A scarier thought than dying._

_"Ah, Regulus," Slughorn invited him in. The professor didn't look like war was eating him. He had his usual hearty smile and hearty gut like life was butterbeer in a sweater next to a fireplace._

_Maybe he could help Regulus. Maybe he could share a bit of warmth and comfort. It was his job, wasn't it? To guide students._

_"Now, the last time we met was right before your OWLs," Slughorn recalled as Regulus took his offered seat, "Brilliant results, but that is no surprise. You had quite a few options in mind, back then, if I remember correctly. I hope you've narrowed it down a bit? No? There are a few things of note when choosing a career…"_

_Slughorn spoke of various aptitude tests, of the differences between academia and professional occupations. He mentioned something about jobs abroad, about internships and apprenticeships. He offered to write references and organize practice interviews and introduce him to relevant witches and wizards. There was a tangent about family obligations, how they might obstruct certain professions and bolster others, and another about how lovely it was to see Regulus's mother at the reunion two weeks ago._

_It all blurred in Regulus's mind. He had trouble processing the words, understanding them. He'd heard them before, yes, but they just felt so distant, so irrelevant, so strange, now. If he could not slot them between treacheries, secrets, and death, then where could he fit them in his immediate plans? They were jigsaw pieces to place in a word game. He didn't know what to do with all these flyers, either. They could not block a Killing Curse, and they could not hide him from the Mark on his own arm, so what use were they?_

_Tissue for his tears, perhaps?_

_"Well?" Slughorn prompted him, "what do you think?"_

_Regulus stared at him incomprehensibly._

_"There is a war," he stated plainly._

_Slughorn gave him a sad look, "Yes, the times are troubling. All the more the reason to really think about what you want to do with your life, Regulus."_

_Easy for you to say, Regulus thought bitterly._

_Horace Slughorn was practically untouchable. Over the years, the older wizard had woven an Acromantula's nest of a network. He had built so many that bridges that should danger come, he could cross to any number of safe islands. Not that any danger was likely to come his way – the Potions' Master was not one to take stances. He was not a threat to anyone, nor was there ever any grudge against him. Everyone liked Horace Slughorn, even if they did not love him. Half the Death Eaters had attended the Slug Club, as had half the Order members, Regulus suspected, and that placed him in the perfect neutral grounds._

_True to his House, Slughorn had secured himself a comfortable place, even in this tumultuous war._

_The professor, who didn't like silence very much, continued on, "If you haven't thought of a particular career yet, perhaps we can figure something out. Which subjects fascinate you the most?"_

_"You taught the Dark Lord, haven't you, sir?" Regulus suddenly asked. He didn't know how else to breach his problem without outright saying that he was a Death Eater and that he didn't want to be and that his hourglass was running out and that he was bloody terrified._

_"Mr. Black," Slughorn chastised him, and Regulus thought, oh so it's Mr. Black again, now? "We are here to discuss your future, not gossip about former students."_

_"But it's all the_ same _," Regulus pressed, gritting his teeth. "My future. The war."_

_Normally, Regulus was very careful about hinting at anything. Being a Death Eater was a crime punishable with Azkaban, after all, and being a traitor was nothing less than a death sentence. He was one of the lucky ones, in some respects. Very few people suspected him of being one, considering his age and passive disposition. Yet anyone with a toe in his family dynamics, anyone with an ear to the Dark Lord's door, would strongly suspect._

_Slughorn was one such person. The man knew nothing of the rumblings of war, of plans and plots, but Regulus would have bet an arm and leg that he knew better than anyone else who stood on which side._

_His persistent side-stepping of the subject certainly supported the claim._

_Slughorn forced the topic back, "I see in your file that you excel at Charms. Filius considers you one of the best students he's ever taught. Is that something you think you wish to pursue?"_

_Regulus blinked in response. Could he not hear between the lines? Unlikely; Slughorn was a master of conversational crafts._

_Not one to be discouraged, the Potions professor insisted, "Top grades in Arithmancy and Ancient Runes as well. Like father, like son, ey, my boy? Melissa Hellman is a personal friend of mine. If you're interested in working for Hellman Security, I could easily set you up. There's no better place to learn Crypto-charms than under her wings."_

_"I don't think it matters much what I_ want _," Regulus tried telling his professor._

_"Now, now," Slughorn shook his head ruefully, "that's awfully pessimistic! We always have a choice. A lot of students feel pressured by their environment to go one way or the other, but you are certainly not the first Pureblood I've had sitting in this room telling me those words, and I've managed to get all the others sorted to their liking. I don't see why it would be different with you. Let's give it another try. I see you're one of our few Alchemists! There are plenty of opportunities there – "_

_It was different, because Regulus wasn't talking about his future, he was talking about his_ death _. But Slughorn wasn't_ listening _. Slughorn was keeping to his safety bubble. Slughorn, like Orion Black, would not help Regulus at his own risk._

_It was starting to be a pattern, this disillusionment. With Sirius, with the Dark Lord, with Bella, with his parents, and now with his professors. Perhaps that was what adults meant when they joked about not feeling like adults. No one really had answers in the end, had they? They were all waddling blind and clumsy into this war, children and elders alike, housecats in the jungle._

_The people in Regulus's life would sooner scrub the word_ war _from every parchment, stone and tombstone in England by hand, than face it. Fine. Difficult to blame them; It was so easy to ignore it all. To pretend not to see, not to hear, not to scream at night. If they did not poke the dragon, maybe it would not char them in return._

_The result was, nonetheless, that Regulus was utterly alone._

_He did not have the luxury to pretend the world was still going as it should. He had pulled on the offending bit of thread the second he'd noticed the first inconsistency in the Dark lord's grand plan out of curiosity, and he'd unraveled the whole lot of it. Horrors, hypocrisy, lies of omission, lies plain and old. There was nothing left standing on solid ground. And that was when Regulus found, to his own surprise, that he too drew hard lines. He knew neutrality like it was the womb he was born from, but he would take no part in_ denial _._

_Not this, he thought as he watched Slughorn fumble with another idea. Regulus would not get drunk on white lies and false safety._

_What, then? If not this, what else was there?_

_His mind supplied the answer: face the truth._

_The truth, the facts, about himself, what he wanted, what he believed – He was ignorant, he wished he were not so, and he knew not what to believe anymore. For his whole life he'd allowed himself to be pleasantly whisked away by gusts and currents; never had he looked ahead and considered, if just for a second, where it all led. Oh, he'd skirted around a few rocks to avoid crashing, but what little that was next to diverting the river._

_It was time he took charge of the direction of his life. He needed to make a decision, quick, about his allegiances and his involvement in the war. He only had the short length of the Dark Lord's patience to solve the age-old problems of Right and Wrong, Duty and Survival, and he could not do that blindfolded._

_Funny. The meeting had helped after all._

_So this would be it. He would investigate further. No matter the worms and skeletons he'd uncover, no matter that this was exactly what had landed him in this conundrum in the first place, he would keep digging. Even if it meant admitting his wrongs. Even if it meant facing the worst of himself and the worst of his loved ones. He would know. And if he knew enough, Regulus reasoned, he could solve both his problems. He could decide where to stand, and how._

_Should he find his doubts were unfounded after all, then his loyalty to the Dark Lord would only be stronger for it, and his mental block would vanish. Should the opposite hold… then knowledge may be just the means required to solve his situation._

_There was no guarantee, of course, but it could hardly make things worse._

_He would listen no more to Bella or Sirius or his parents._

_Then, maybe, the fear would pale in the face of certainty. Then, maybe, he would be able to gather his scattered thoughts and efforts into a single, solid spear to point at his path. In the meantime, he had to understand this war. Keep his ears and eyes open, and his head down. He was solely on his own side from now on, and until he was reasonably sure of what he was doing._

_And the first question, the most essential, perhaps, in the matters of the viability of defection– how literal were the Dark Lord's claims of Immortality?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Caught up with what's posted on ff.net!


	6. The Riddle : the Slytherin Seeker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two boys fly the skies, decked in green and silver.

**The Little King’s Road**

* * *

 

The Riddle, Chapter Five: The Slytherin Seeker

_March 1996_

Before it can reach his eyes, Draco sharply grabs the bloated, _dead_ hand.

He will not die like Regulus Black and he won’t allow for the limb to come an inch closer.

He holds tight.

“ _Fuck_ – Draco you’re _hurting_ me!”

The screech chases the dark waters away. The pallid white skin takes on a rosy tone, the grime at the fingertips is hidden by shiny peach polish, the bony fingers become softer, smoother, daintier, and the uneven nails are filed perfectly round. The Black signet ring morphs in a thin band of silver ivy. The hand he holds has barely ever had a papercut, much less seen death and rot.

It’s _warm_.

“Draco!”

Mechanically, Draco releases his grip, but not much else. His breath is still stuck in his throat. His every muscle is still tense and locked. His eyes do not move from Pansy’s.

Pansy yanks her hand back, rubbing at her aching wrist. Her teeth are grit in discomfort, and the look she gives him is damning. Like she’s just been scratched by her own cat.

“I was just trying to wake you,” she hisses, “ _Merlin_!”

He hears her, but in the few seconds between sleep and complete awareness, he doesn’t process her words. Instead, he listens to his wildly beating heart, his controlled breaths, the echoes of his nightmares.

Instinctively, his knees inch closer to his chest and his arms cross over them.

He’s safe, he tells himself. Safe. There’s no Inferius here. He’s at Hogwarts, with his peers, studying for his OWLs. He’s vaguely aware of Pansy whinging and complaining in the background. They’re in the fifth year boy’s dorm – _his_ dorm. His room. They’re all sitting on the floor, leaning against the beds’ footboards, entangled with books, parchment and quills. Them, Draco, Pansy, Millicent, Vince, and Greg. The usual group. And Millicent. She’s there quite a lot recently, Draco notes.

He lets his head slump against one of his hands. The feeling of his fingers raking through his hair grounds him. He pulls a little, just a pinch of pain, to make sure.

 _Focus on just one thing,_ Aunt Bella had said, _when your thoughts are muddled, start with just the one. Go from there._

The floor… is a map of England.

“Why is the floor a map of England?” Draco asks, the first thing that comes to mind.

“Pansy and Millie were practicing permanent projection charms,” Vince helpfully provides.

“This has been going too long, Draco,” Pansy tells him, a continuation of her tirade, “You’re not alright.”

“Do you want us to reverse it?” Millicent wonders, her wand at the ready.

“I don’t know if it’s OWL stress,” Pansy rambles on, “or – or whatever it is your _mentor_ is having you do, or Quidditch, or your Prefect and Inquisitional Squad duties. Or something else entirely, but by Morgana, Draco, you need to do something about it!”

“Leave it,” Draco decides, “Maybe if they look at it enough, Vince and Greg might finally be able to locate it on a globe.”

“I think it looks cool,” Vince says. Millicent pats his shoulder kindly.

“We’re not _that_ stupid,” Greg defends himself. “England is in Europe.”

Draco raises an eyebrow and reaches for his wand to flip the book Greg holds right side up.

“Are you even _listening_ to me?” Pansy demands.

It’s been about two weeks since the start of term, and everyone’s been steadily growing further on edge with approaching exams. Tension and stress have piled up over Hogwarts like a Summer’s snow, a cold blanket to cover the season’s bright rays. Even Crabbe and Goyle have miraculously found their way to the library. They have yet to figure out the loaning system, but it is a brand new world for them, so judgement is reserved.

Pansy and Draco are certainly not the firsts to get in a row over built up stress. It is well known the true carnage of OWLs and NEWTs are not the failed exams; it’s the ruined friendships. And the chewed fingernails.

“Draco!” Pansy urges him, snapping her fingers in front of his face for attention.

“I’m _fine_ , Pans,” Draco insists. He really wishes she would shut up. Pansy’s always been a dear friend to him, but he’s recently realized her voice is like dry chalk on a blackboard, and every word from her mouth has been chafing his ears since.

“You’re really not,” she takes the open book that has slid off his laps when he had dozed off and puts it away, “I know you haven’t been sleeping well. You’re cranky and you have bags under your eyes the size of Hagrid’s knuckles, and Blaise says –”

“I don’t care what Zabini says, he’s full of Hippogriff dung.”

Pansy gives him a look. _Case in point,_ she seems to say.

She pushes through. “Blaise says you’ve been increasingly jumpy and bizarre and I happen to agree. You’ve been inconsistently sanding furniture around Hogwarts, you hurled the plaque that lists Slytherin Prefects out the window and into the Black Lake, you threw a right fit over Pucey’s new haircut –”

“If it was in fashion in the seventies, it’s outdated now,” reasons Draco.

“— you crumpled, slashed, burnt and tossed one of your father’s letters when you usually keep them pressed and framed – term’s barely started, Draco. This is not a normal list of weirdness.”

“An oxymoron, you must realise,” Draco grumbles.

He knows he’s been acting out. He’s not _daft_.

In his pile of books, a dusty blue tome stands out. It’s the dueling text recommended by his aunt, _The Quick Draw_. He traces the golden title with his finger, grabs it to occupy his hands, and flips through its pages absentmindedly.

He doesn’t react when he reaches the inside of the back cover. There’s a paper there with names of students written in their own hand, followed by the date they had taken it out and the one they were to return it for.

It comes as little surprise that three names above Draco’s is one Regulus A. Black’s.

Upon first noticing it, Draco had snapped the library quill in half. He’s picked up the book enough times now that it’s just another itch. Something that’s _there_ , constantly, but nothing more.

Draco’s done the math. Answered the question no one’s asked. February 1976. Regulus would have been fourteen, in the middle of his Fourth year. About a full year younger than Draco is.

Vince’s birthday, he forgets every year, but for some accursed reason, Draco has Regulus’s full timeline memorized now. All these glimpses into the dead man’s life – the photographs, the records, the stories from his parents – they’re piecing together a puzzle, but there’s so little point to it that the young Malfoy wishes it would find someone else to bother already. He’s not interested in figuring out riddles to which he doesn’t even know the statement.

(That’s a blatant lie. He knows it.

There’s a perfect little wizard boy loved by all, a wretched death, and a blank to fill in the middle.)

This reminder, at least, has some logic to it. Bellatrix does not hide that she has taught her cousin the same way she is now teaching Draco. The only curious element in this story is that the name sheet has not been replaced since, but _the Quick Draw_ is unconventional and controversial, and not a text that would be cited by Hogwarts professors. It is only a dark spell away from exile to the Forbidden Section. A student working on a very specific research project must have left it behind decades ago, and no one’s ever found another use for it since.

Draco’s about halfway through it. His other textbooks are not met with the same level of success.

“Montague’s been saying the same, though,” Greg points out, like he is part of the conversation and has the right to input his thoughts. The part of Draco’s brain that runs on automatic marvels at the concept of Gregory Goyle _having thoughts_.

“Since when do you listen to Montague?” asks Draco.

Greg replies with a shrug, “He’s under the impression you’re more likely to listen to me and Vince.”

Draco snorts. “What a dunce, that Montague.”

“You can’t just call everyone who disagrees with you an idiot, Drake,” Pansy sighs.

“Watch me.”

“No thank you, I’ve seen train wrecks before. They’re only ever impressive when they’re unexpected.”

“Excuse me?” Draco says, “Everything I do is impressive.”

Pansy’s eyebrow takes a hike north. “ _That’s_ what you choose to take offense at?”

“I don’t think Montague’s gonna be impressed when you take a bludger to the head and lose us the game,” Vince says, and Millicent nods along as if he’s the wisest of them all, “You caught a Quaffle instead of the Snitch last practice, and didn’t realise until you’d landed.”

Technically true. Yet utterly irrelevant to the current conversation. None of them know anything.

“Shut it. I’ll be fine,” assures Draco, insulted anyone would think anything otherwise out of nowhere, “We’re going to destroy Hufflepuff this week end.”

* * *

 

They do not destroy Hufflepuff, that week end.

And yes. It is, perhaps, a tiny little bit, if you squint hard enough, depending on interpretation, somewhat Draco’s fault.

It’s a close game, though. Very close. It’s 280 to 130 in Slytherin’s favour, the Snitch is right in front of Draco, his fingers are practically laced in a net around the golden bugger, Summerby is a whole arm’s length behind Draco and Draco _knows_ he’s faster than the third year. The new Hufflepuff seeker is no slouch, but he’s thirteen, still a bit clumsy, and riding a dusty, rusting Comet. There might as well have been cobwebs hanging from its tail.

They should have won. By all means, it was no competition.

And then Summerby’s fingers brush against Draco’s ankle in a failed attempt to grab him, and Draco feels chills go through his whole body, and he flinches, and he freezes, for only just a half a second, but a half second is _everything_ in a Seeker’s game, and by the time he’s back the Snitch in front of him is now the back of a yellow and black Quidditch uniform with ‘SUMMERBY’ printed on it and the end of game whistle has been blown, and the Hufflepuff chasers have scored another ten points in the meantime and –

It’s contested. The timing is ambiguous. The Slytherins and the Hufflepuffs yell at each other, everyone shouts their unflinching opinions over the other, every shout bouncing off their intended recipients like bludgers against a bat. The referee, Madame Hooch, can barely get a word in. She has to physically stop the two Captains from strangling each other. It takes half an hour to reach consensus.

290 to 280, Hufflepuff wins.

By the time the referee sends them back, Draco feels like reconverting his broom to its traditional use and asking someone to sweep him out of the field. Crabbe and Goyle simply pack up and leave, looking down, but not particularly disappointed, as if they had been expecting this outcome. Montague is giving Draco the stink eye, as he has for the past two weeks. The rest of the team are disgruntled, but they show nothing in Draco’s line of sight, they say nothing within his hearing range.

He won’t get kicked out. He can’t be. The whole Quidditch team gets to ride the latest broom models thanks to his very presence. Yet for the first time, the thought shames him more than it comforts him, and he doesn’t know why.

“What the bloody fuck was that, Malfoy?” Montague demands in the changing room, and Draco has to work really hard at ignoring the way his teammates ears perk up at the confrontation. They’re not as discreet as they think, hiding behind the doors of their lockers and keeping their back to their Captain and Seeker. “You had the Snitch, why’d you just stop?”

“I don’t know, Montague,” Draco answers irritably, “Why’d you let them score another Quaffle?”

“Maybe because we were focusing on keeping the bludgers away from the teammate that was supposed to win us the game because he was _perfectly fine_ and _capable_ and in _top shape_.”

If he was honest, Draco would admit that having his own words thrown back at him stung.

But he isn’t, so instead he says, “Then maybe you shouldn’t rely on having just one decent player to win you the whole bloody Cup.”

It is very fortunate at that moment that Graham Montague, Captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team, loves his new shiny broom enough to wed and bed it, for it is the only thing keeping him from socking Draco in the jaw. With all the control a seventeen-year-old has that a fifteen-year-old doesn’t, Montague shakes his head and decides his junior is just not worth the fight.

That too, stings.

Everything stings, and everything is stirring that unpleasant something that growls at the back of Draco’s chest. His parents irritate him. His teachers irritate him. His friends irritate him. His teammates irritate him.

In a few weeks, the world that was cradling Draco like a King has turned into a cocoon of needles, each point threatening to be the one to burst the thin film keeping him together.

A shrill squeal meets Draco when he steps out, and something irrevocably tips and spills inside him.

Summerby and the Hufflepuff keeper, the new player from the Easter break, are still hanging around the pitch. They’re both third years, and they’re so full of glee that Draco feels like throwing them a _Bombarda_. They’re not alone, neither are they the source of the strident cry.

There’s a third one. Not a Quidditch player, clearly just a supporting friend, but not a Hufflepuff either.

“I told you,” the third year Slytherin girl laughs, “I _told_ you.”

It’s Greengrass the younger, Draco recognizes. She’s shoving Tarot cards in Summerby’s face like it’s a pie prank. Draco thinks of his blonde classmate and feels another needle poking and prodding at him. It must be in their blood, this disloyalty to their colours. A rotten tree, the whole Greengrass family.

Summerby raises his hands in surrender, “Fine, you win,” he chuckles, but he doesn’t look defeated at all, “I will never make fun of Divination ever again.”

Astoria Greengrass puffs her chest with pride, “See that you do not. Clearly you would never have won without me and my cards to tell you that you would.”

“Clearly,” Summerby agrees idly, “Nothing to do with skills.”

“But Rosa!” Greengrass squeals again and it’s just as aggravating a sound as the first time. She tackle-hugs the Keeper, a plump dark-skinned girl with a black cloud over her head, and squeezes her hard, “Sam’s old news now – Congratulations on winning your first game! I’m so happy for you!”

 _Enough_.

“Happy your House lost, then?” Draco interrupts shortly.

He takes pleasure in how immediate the effect is. Their happy bubble bursts at once. Smiles turn into frowns, and the hug becomes a protective grip on each other.

“Sod off, Malfoy,” Summerby growls, “the game’s over.”

Draco taps the badge on his chest, the one that crowns him Head of the Inquisitorial Squad. “Did you not hear Decree 47? No loitering outside more than necessary. This is a clear breach; 60 points from Hufflepuff: 20 for each of you.”

“But that’s not fair!” Greengrass complains and by Merlin, what is it with girls and voices that make one want to jump off the Astronomy Tower? Draco glares at her and all her rightful indignation seeps away, leaving behind a shy murmur. “…What about Slytherin?”

Draco gives her a smile, one full of teeth, “I’d dock points from them too if there was one in front of me, but all I see are runts that don’t have the qualities to get sorted into a real House.”

Daphne Greengrass is tall, blonde and fair. Her sister is short, brunette, and has the tan of a farmhand. Daphne’s wit leaves behind blood trails and carcasses, Astoria’s is nowhere to be seen. The mousy girl only bits her lip and turns red in shame. Her brown eyes flee Draco’s icy stare, and she tightens her grip on her friend so she can hide behind her arm.

All considered, an appropriate reaction.

Her friends are not so easily cowed however.

The Keeper, who’s name Draco has yet to bother learning, scoffs, “What a sore loser you are, Malfoy. There’s no need to take it out on us just because you froze like a first-time player with a baby broom on the Pitch.”

In a fluid motion, one Bellatrix had drilled in him so much during the holidays he barely registers he’s doing it, Draco draws his wand. It’s so sudden, so quick, so sharp, that the two Hufflepuffs forget their bravado and jump out of their skin.

There’s no quip that follows. No defiant glare. All six eyes are fixated on the wand that is lightly pressed against the Keeper’s throat.

 _You’ll understand power when you see fear for the first time,_ Bellatrix had said, _real fear._ _That’s when you know you’re holding the strings._

He can see it now, in the faces of the three third years. He knows they’ll flinch when he opens his mouth. He knows whatever he asks of them, their lives will not be worth refusing to them. They haven’t even drawn their wands in retaliation, scared as they are.

“I did _not_ freeze,” Draco growls, “Besides, it’s not like you have a leg to stand on, piggy. Surely you realise you let twice as many Quaffles pass as our Keeper? Or are your parents not educated enough to have taught you to count?”

The jab at her parents strikes the girl hard, but she soon remembers the wand at her neck, and clamps her jaw shut. _If only it was so easy to silence Pansy and Montague and Potter and even Mother_ , he can’t help but think. This feels like the first moment of silence Draco’s had since Easter, the first moment to himself. No one nagging and nagging at him. No one telling him what to do. No one criticizing and insulting him.

It’s the first time he feels like he’s in full control of the situation. It comes as a breath of fresh air.

The Keeper stays silent. “Smart,” Draco approves, “I want to hear you say it. Admit you’re a terrible Keeper.”

“The professors won’t let you get away with this,” Summerby says, but he doesn’t move, and he sounds about as confident as a first-year facing Snape for the first time. He flinches when Draco turns his way.

“Won’t I?” Draco asks, “ _I_ think I could get away with _murder_.”

It’s strange, but right at this moment, he really feels he could. He knows how to – a well-placed slashing curse, no matter how basic, no matter how weak, is easily lethal, and Bellatrix did teach him all the best spots. He wonders if it shows, in his confidence, that his mind is reeling over how simple it would be just to cast. Say the words, make the motion. It must show, if only just a bit, because the fear in the runts gets thicker by the second.

“You’re insane,” the Keeper dares, and Malfoy twists his wand and she lets out a grunt of discomfort.

“Admit it,” insists Draco.

The keeper grits her teeth, and for a second Draco fears she’ll refuse. She looks like the type to take a stand, like Granger, like Potter, like Weasley when he doesn’t trip himself first. Then what? Draco will have to take action. Follow through with his words or admit to a bluff, to a defeat.

Suddenly his confidence is paper thin.

He can do it. He’s angry enough. He wishes these brats the worst. He’s been through the motions. Bellatrix has shown him how to. He has the power. He can think it.

Yet between knowing he can, and having to do it, there’s a vacuum that sucks out all the air in Draco’s lungs. It can’t be there – what would Bellatrix think of it?

_I think I could get away with murder._

It’s a taller order than Draco had imagined when he’d spoken it, but he has spoken it. He just has to say the words, and make the motion. But will his lips part? Will his wand move? Draco’s limbs start to feel heavy, like he’s underwater, like there a full lake’s worth of pressure on him.

Another gem from Bellatrix’s collection of maxims _. Threats are not one way. They’re a contract – only worth something if you follow through._

“Admit it!”

He almost says _please_.

“ _Fine_! I’m a terrible Keeper!” The Hufflepuff cries. “I’m horrible player and I don’t know how I got on the team! Are you happy now?”

Relief. Draco is fucking relieved. He hates it.

The Hufflepuff should have been at his mercy, and yet he was at hers.

He tears his wand away from the Keeper.

“ _Incendio_.”

Greengrass yelps as her cards light up, and she watched them flutter to the ground in horror.

“Remember your place,” Malfoy tells them, “ _You’re_ a Slytherin. And you two, you’ve won _one_ game on a fluke, do not let it get to your head. And get out of my sight, you’re dirtying my eyes.”

The three third years don’t need to be told twice; they scatter away, tears in their eyes, lips trembling.

Draco doesn’t move an inch at first.

As his power high slowly dissipates, he finds all the noise in his mind roaring back to life. The small moment of reprieve almost makes it worst, as it all comes crashing back at once. It’s too much, he thinks, but it’s what’s been in his head until the confrontation just now. How had he not noticed it before? Why had no one –

He looks at the scraps of blackened tarot cards and listens to the _You’re insane_ echoing in his mind.

It’s not like he hasn’t been considering the possibility lately.

He knows where his thoughts head before they do, and he’s further confronted by it when he returns to the Common Room and glances at the Quidditch photographs hanging there. Five Reguluses (Reguli, perhaps?) are staring at him now. _Five_. Out of them, two have won the Quidditch Cup. 1975-1976 and 1976-1977. Fourth and fifth year, consecutively.

In contrast, Draco has just completely botched their last game. He’s never held that trophy, and the grins the Reguluses give him feel like mockery. The Slytherin team looks so gleeful in those pictures, nothing like the grim, proud faces that have been added for the past four years, and that will no doubt be added after the end of this season.

Draco scowls. If he was so much better a wizard, then why _did_ Regulus Black die like a salted slug?

 _Merlin_.

He’s competing with a dead man. There really is no need to get so bent over it; by the simple grace that the man is rotting at the bottom of a lake and Draco most certainly is not, he’s already winning.

Yet, as he eyes the trophies, it doesn’t feel like it.

It grates him to admit it, but they’re right. All of them. Pansy, Vince, Greg, the needles, bloody _Montague_. It needs to stop. Everything needs to stop.

He spots Zabini come in and make his way to their dorm and an idea hits him.

“Blaise,” Draco asks, and his classmates marks a pause in his step, “You take Ghoul Studies as an extracurricular, correct?”

The boy shrugs, “We can’t all be on the Quidditch Team.”

“Excellent. What do you know about performing ghost exorcisms?”

Blaise’s eyes narrow, like he suspects Draco is up to something _again_. The distrust in the Dungeons, honestly.

“Only that it is highly discouraged for underaged wizards to attempt it,” he reluctantly provides, “Should I dare ask why you must know…?”

* * *

 

_November 1974_

_The thirteen year old circled the sky above the game. He had watched many before. Father had taken them to the World Cup a couple of times, and Regulus had attended every game in his first and second year. But being in the stands was not the same as being in the air. Quidditch truly looked different from this perspective. He couldn’t tell if it was the solitude and the silence of a Seeker’s place far above, or if it was the connection from being part of it, but he felt like he was much more aware of what was happening on the Pitch, despite not having the luxury of watching the other players so intensely._

_Of course, none of that solved his little problem._

_This… This wasn’t supposed to happen. Regulus wasn’t too sure what he was to do about it. He waved at the referee, but the referee was too busy shouting at the Gryffindor Beaters, and Clarissa Clearwater in the stands waved back like she thought he was saying hello. Clearwater was alright, but this was not helping._

_Awkwardly, Regulus shuffled from one end of the Pitch to the other, rather hoping to catch someone’s eyes. Anyone, really. He would even have settled for Potter. Except no one was looking._

_He tried intercepting one of his teammates, but they just zoomed past him._

_The longer this went on…_

_Briefly, he considered flying to the center of the game, where the Bludgers and Quaffles were being thrown about. It would certainly disrupt it, but only because it guaranteed him a nasty hit on the head. Moreover, was he even allowed to interrupt the game like that? Regulus swore there was some rule or another against it. Planned injuries were generally looked down upon._

_The first-time Seeker certainly didn’t want to lose Slytherin the game by penalty. His housemates would kill him._

_“Slytherin Seeker Regulus Black ignores another feint from Elsbeth October!” The commentator said._ Finally _, Regulus thought. “In fact, Black is looking a little confused and lost there. Was he perhaps looking for the Gobstones Club when accidentally signing up for Quidditch?”_

_Regulus glared at the commentators’ box._

_He cupped his hands in that direction, capitalizing on their eyes being on him for once, “The game needs to stop!” He shouted._

_Unfortunately, Potter chose that exact moment to score another hoop for Gryffindor and the cheers drowned the sound of Regulus’s voice. The boy suspected the winds and distance would have done it anyways, but any chance to blame Potter for something was a good one._

_Potter, psh!_

_“Another ten points for Gryffindor by James Potter!” The commentator roared, “bringing up the score to 220 – 170 for Gryffindor! Can Slytherin catch up? Oh! Beautiful intercept by Evan Rosier! And an immediate goal retaliation! 220 – 180! Faster than you can say Quidditch! At least one of Slytherin’s newcomers knows what he’s doing.”_

_Curse Ev._

_Regulus was about to tear his own hair. “The. Game. Needs. To._ Stop _!” He tried again._

_“Black seems to be trying to communicate something!” The commentator picked up. “Murray eats no mop? Is he speaking French? Gobbledook?”_

_Regulus brought his palms to his face with a groan. This was getting ridiculous!_

_He glanced down at the game that was still raging. None of his teammates spared him a glance, and he couldn’t very well fly up to them when they were this focused on playing. Nothing got you shoved off your broom faster than breaking a player’s concentration in the heat of the game._

_Only one thing left to do, then._

_Regulus navigated the Pitch towards the ground._

_“Black lands his broom!” The useless commentator pointed out, “Is there an issue to take up with the referee?”_

Obviously _, Regulus bitterly thought. He walked to the referee, professor Hummings, who had an eyebrow raised at him. It wasn’t unheard of for a player to land during a game, but it was usually preceded by a Bludger to the nose._

_Finally in hearing distance of someone, Regulus nervously explained the situation._

_Beneath the veneer of mild irritation and anxiety, he felt awfully guilty. He’d never heard of any other Seeker to cause a similar problem. A mean, hateful part of him told him he would possibly get kicked off the team for it._

_Professor Hummings groaned._

_“Sorry,” Regulus mumbled, eyes on the grassy field as if watching for a hole to bury himself in._

_Without magic or tool save for his own two fingers, professor Hummings whistled the game to a stop. He wrote a flying note to the commentator’s box and sent it as the rest of the Quidditch players descended in confusion._

_“What’s happening?” Octavius Pratt, the Slytherin Captain, asked, throwing Regulus a concerned look. “Is everything well?”_

_Regulus looked away, embarrassed. The commentator could be heard laughing in the mic._

_The Slytherin Seeker opened up his palm for all the other players to see just as it was announced for everyone else._

_“Slytherin Seeker Regulus Black has caught the Snitch…. TWENTY WHOLE MINUTES AGO! Professor Hummings and Quidditch Captains Octavius Pratt and Alice Fawley must now agree to the points to match the time Black caught the Snitch. A full review will be required to give the final score, but needless to say, SLYTHERIN TAKES THE GAME! And Black, next time, for Merlin’s sake, SPEAK UP!”_

_Regulus felt his cheeks heat up. Being singled out in front of the whole of Hogwarts was not something he was used to, nor something he found pleasant._

_He braced himself for a cacophony of groans and grimaces. No one liked when points were being contested. It always led to arguments upon arguments, it got messy and violent, and Regulus hated that he was the one to herald such a cumbersome task. He knew he should have landed the second he’d noticed no one had noticed. If it weren’t for his hesitation…_

_Instead, the Pitch erupted in snickers and cheers, and Regulus was jolted out of his anxiety by a sequence of friendly slaps to the back._

_“Nicely done, Regulus!” Octavius grinned._

_“I take back what I said,” Hortense Grimore, one of their Chasers and the biggest skeptic to his addition, told him, “you’re alright, Black. Welcome to the team.”_

_The rest of the team congratulated him one by one, fondly._

_“Must you steal the spotlight like this?” Evan sighed, though he was fighting an obvious smile as he hooked his arm around Regulus’s shoulders, “I always knew you were secretly a glory hound, Black.”_

_The validation gave him the confidence to beam on his own._

_“What gave me away?” Regulus retorted, winning euphoria starting to lift his heart, “The twenty minutes it took for anyone to notice? Because you lot kept scoring like the self-obsessed Chasers you are?”_

_“I’d apologise,” Evan said, “but it would demean us both with filthy, filthy lies.”_

_A boisterous laugh bloomed behind Regulus, one he recognized instantly. He turned around to see Sirius had descended from the stands to join the players on the Pitch, mirth in his eyes. He wasn’t supposed to do that, no one was, but the professors had long given up trying to stop him._

_For a moment, Regulus thought his brother would walk straight past him to comfort his best friend, but Sirius planted himself right before him in a way he couldn’t mistake even in his bitterest days._

_“Merlin, Reg,” Sirius whistled, still wiping tears from his eyes, “haven’t laughed at a Quidditch game like that in years! You really must do something about your…” he vaguely gestured at the whole of Regulus with poorly veiled distaste, “… you.”_

_Regulus huffed, “If you are just here to take the piss –"_

_“Take the piss? Are you joking?” Sirius grinned, arms flailing in the air, “That was brilliant! Only you could make the most prominent position in a Quidditch team go forgotten. And the way you were flying around – like you’d done something_ wrong _– Ha! You looked bloody terrified for having_ caught the Snitch _! Unbelievable.” Sirius did something to Regulus’s head that messed with his hair, “Never change, Reg. You’re too pure for this wretched world.”_

_Contradictory with his earlier statement, but Regulus could take the compliment. If it was one? Sirius could be so ambiguous sometimes._

_Someone else approached him, a red intruder in a sea of green._

_Elsbeth October gave him a sheepish smile, “No wonder you didn’t fall for any of my feints,” she mused, “Godric’s beard, I feel like such an idiot. How did you even catch it? I didn’t see anything.”_

_As a third year Slytherin boy, Regulus didn’t have a lot of conversations with seventh year Gryffindor girls, so being addressed by one was quite the strange experience._

_He rubbed the back of his neck shyly. “It was flying close to the Bludgers,” he told her._

_It was debated just how sentient Snitches were, but this one had definitely been trying to escape notice by sticking to the one variable Seekers religiously avoided in games. Regulus had had to bait the two Gryffindors Beaters for a whole twenty minutes before he’d managed to dodge one close enough to snatch the sneaky little golden ball._

_More than once, he’d come very close to being knocked off his broom._

_October whistled, “Well, in that case, impressive game, Black,” she struck out her hand, and Regulus shook it hesitantly, “pity I won’t get my revenge on you. Graduation is a curse.”_

_Regulus was getting a bit overly conscious of the rest of the Gryffindor team approaching, curious of the exchange. Sirius and October had clearly torn down the embargo on Slytherin-Gryffindor communications on the Pitch, and that gave everyone else the confidence to follow._

_“Your feints were beautifully executed,” he returned, to remain civil, “I am sure I would have fallen for them, had I not had the Snitch in hand.”_

_October groaned, “Way to pour salt on the wound, kid.”_

_Regulus really hadn’t meant it as an insult. He felt his cheeks redden, abashed, “I apologise,” he caught himself. His phrasing had been clumsy. “I meant to say—"_

_“Stop that!” Sirius slapped Regulus’s arm, “bask in the glory, Reg. Bask. El knows you weren’t going for a dig at her.”_

_The opposing Seeker certainly did look more amused than offended._

_Without being asked, Regulus was suddenly hoisted in the air by his brother, and plopped on his shoulders._

_“Sirius!” Regulus hissed. He clawed at his older brother’s scalp to avoid falling backwards._

_“Immersive lesson time._ Sonorus _,” Sirius casted, and already Regulus could tell he wasn’t going to like where this was going, “Hogwarts students and geriatrics, may I have your attention? A round of applause for Sirius Black’s less recognizable, less memorable, less handsome brother, please!”_

_“Ev,” Regulus implored, pawing the air in direction of his friend, “Ev, please. Help.”_

_Evan, the traitor, took another step backwards to get a better view of the spectacle._

_The stands cheered. Regulus really wanted to find that hole now. It was regrettable that players weren’t allowed their wands on the Pitch. A sensible rule, but regrettable nonetheless. Sirius certainly could have done with a bit of hexing._

_Perhaps if he looked miserably enough at McGonagal, she’d oblige. He was certain she secretly dreamt of spelling Sirius Black silent every night._

_“The one and only Regulus Black! You will regret not having noticed him earlier,” Sirius continued, “what was that, Reg?”_

_“I have not said anyth—”_

_“Regulus says that Ravenclaw better watch out because he will crush them next term! Single handedly! Who needs a team to best a pen of headless chickens?”_

_Mortified, Regulus pulled at his brother’s ear and kicked at his ribs._

_“Ouch!” Sirius flinched, his cry amplified by his spell, “Alright, alright, Reg. Don’t get your pants in a twist, I’ll tell them. Regulus adds that he’s going to become the greatest wizard to ever grace Britain, and that Merlin and Dumbledore have nothing on him!”_

_“Shut_ up _, Sirius!” Regulus insisted, pulling at hair now. Intellectually, he knew Dumbledore wouldn’t take it seriously, but being a self-conscious teenager, the fear was real._

_“You’re all flobberworms to him! Bow to his excellence! Scion of the Noble and Most Outdated House of Black! He of the purest blood! Devourer of owl plumage!”_

_“I was three!” Regulus weakly protested._

_“Great defeater of parchment limits!” Evan shouted over the crowd._

_Sirius sent a wink his way, “Great defeater of parchment limits!” He echoed._

_“Chosen by the Slug, Cheek-pinched by the Aunts!” Xander added from the stands, with his own_ Sonorus _. He received a thumbs-up from Sirius for his contribution, the back-stabbing, no good friend._

_The horror must have been openly displayed on his face, because the Gryffindors were forgetting to look defeated. Whistles and giggles were emerging instead of grumbles and sobs. Regulus had caught the Snitch; why was he the one losing his dignity?_

_Immensely desperate now, Regulus met Potter’s eyes. The fourth year Chaser conveyed genuine sympathy for his plight, but a shrug and an apologetic smile was all he could offer to soften the hit. Or so at first. The Gryffindor paused, hesitant. He slowly gestured to Sirius, then back at Regulus, and mouthed “He’s – proud – of –_ you _,” with a confirmatory nod tacked at the end, like he was the reigning authority on Sirius Orion Black._

_The bloody asshole; it made all kinds of things flutter inside._

_Then Sirius was speaking again and ruining everything._

_“Daring Insulter of fellow Seekers!”_

_“I truly didn’t intend—”_

_And Merlin did Regulus feel like dying of embarrassment then and there, but not even he could fight the grin that bloomed on his face as Sirius’s antics only grew exponentially. The crowd around them had begun feeding him cues and holding back guffaws. Slytherins and Gryffindors, jesting together in celebration. Despite being at Regulus’s expense, it was a sight to behold, and one that would light a torch in Regulus’s heart for years to come._

_Because for once, Regulus’s naïve ideals were not that naïve. Sirius, Xander and Evan were conspiring together against him, Regulus himself and Potter had shared a look that held no antagonism, and the two worlds were melding – past grievances laid forgotten outside the Pitch. Red and green, silver and gold, blood and blood traitors, even in the midst of war._

_Maybe Severus was wrong, about it all._

_Maybe Regulus wasn’t so foolish to still hold out hope that his family could be alright, that politics could be bridged over, and that he wouldn’t have to choose or be torn, in the end._

_As it turned out though, Severus was right, Regulus was that foolish, and Potter should really have known better than to hand out false hope; that first Quidditch game was the one and only time Sirius Black would ever cheer for Slytherin. Temporary euphoria alone could not make up for a lifetime of grudges, and a little brother just wasn’t important enough to make further healing efforts for. He should have known, in hindsight. War won over ties. Anger came much easier than love. But thirteen-year-olds still dream, so Regulus dreamt as well, back then._

_From his perch, he raised the Snitch high in the air._

_“Subjugator of Gryffindors!” He declared, with a jovial grin at his brother below._

_And just this time, a fluke in History, it was taken for the joke it was meant to be._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, a truly happy flashback for Reg! Gotta stop torturing the poor kid, he's already decomposing at the bottom of a lake where no one will ever find him.
> 
> For those reading The Bat's Crest: I swear the next chapter is coming along! I swear!


End file.
